The College Years of Wizardry: Wet Carpets
by The Violist
Summary: Once rid of Hogwarts, Harry, Ron, and Hermione find themselves given to the care of three madcap college professors, barely out of Hogwarts themselves... and discover the one secret that Dumbledore neglected to tell them...
1. Prologue

The College Years of Wizardry: Wet Carpets

Hogwarts is junior high and high school condensed for wizards... but what about college? Oyster, Janet Starlight, and Keith had their own plans, but a new batch of students and a new batch of problems sets everything on its ear...

Rating: PG-13

Plot: shh!

REWRITTEN

* * *

Prologue

_Well we had a lot of dreams when we were younger_

_They thought we were crazy but we had the hunger_

_We made a lot of friends, skipped a lot of class_

_Been on top of the world and knocked on our ass_

_We lost touch, we lost in love_

_We lost our minds when things got touch _

_But beating time is a losing fight_

_and I guess I'm doing alright._

_- _Jo Dee Messina, "I'm Alright"

* * *

Minerva stalked down the corridors of Hogwarts, her seething mind in the turmoil of confusion. She had been taken out of her bath by an urgent note from Dumbledore, and was currently experiencing an emotion she had rarely felt with the astute old wizard – anger. He had never disrupted her so unexpectedly before, and curiosity warred with disbelief, irritation and her primary sentiment, which was currently being displayed on a contorted face.

Right out of the middle of her own damn bathtime. He never did this. Unless the Chamber was bloody well open or Voldemort was resurrected, it had better not be anything less severe than a rampaging vampire.

"Lemon drops," she spat at the gargoyles, her strides bringing her level with them. If the password had been changed since last Tuesday (as it well may have; Dumbledore, above other things, was a whimsical man) they said nothing of it, taking the vexation on her face as their cue to spring aside.

She ascended the stairs with ancient majesty, nervousness beginning to chew at her posture. Catching her reflection in one of the glossy phoenix feathers, Minerva winced. Crow's feet and the pale, sagging skin of one who was becoming old gazed back at her. Drawing herself up, she adopted an air of self-confidence and bitchiness. No use being an old witch if she wasn't going to be a damn well respected one.

The stairs opened onto Dumbledore's office. She blinked. It was surprisingly dark.

"Albus?" she quavered, and was appalled at the sheer pitch in her voice. Fear was gnawing on her. Something was definitely not right. Especially when the quaver brought no response.

Her hawk eyes picked out the hunched figure by the window. His long, bony fingers were steepled as he stared over the grounds, totally unaware of his surroundings.

Minerva crossed the room in three strides and touched his shoulder urgently. "Albus!"

His blue eyes swerved up to her face, then away. "Ah, Minerva," he said softly. "Thank you for answering so quickly."

"What's wrong?" Screw the rampaging vampire. She was preparing for a whole migration of basilisks to come swarming out of the shadows. "Albus, it's okay, don't break it to me gently, I can handle it, are the students in danger, what's wrong?"

Now he just looked amused. The Transfiguration teacher felt her fingers itching to slap him. "Well?" she demanded, expecting the worst.

He sighed, sat up, and began with an old touch of his boyhood vigor. "Remember Oyster? And Janet Starlight? And Keith?"

Minerva froze. She hadn't expected it to be_ this_ bad. "Uhm, yes," she said cautiously.

"Do you recall their ambitions?"

The witch suddenly looked older, haggard, resigned. "Yes. Usually in the dark hours of the night, when I wonder what I have unleashed upon the wizarding world."

At last, the headmaster relaxed back into his normal playful mood. "Any recollections of Career Advice?"

Minerva closed her eyes and pressed her wrinkled palms against them. When Albus waited, she became aware that he was serious and began to strain her old memory.

* * *

They had insisted on coming all at the same time. It didn't matter that she had said, over and over again, to choose separate counseling times. No, Keith had arranged matters so that the three of them arrived at her office when she had prepared herself mentally for one.

Therefore, she was completely unbalanced that entire hour of torture.

Oyster had entered first, smiling with plain impertinence at her. She had wanted to slap his cheeky face, smack those freckles right off his pale skin, twist her fingers in his coppery-red hair and just rip it away. Dancing with mirth, his brown eyes slid away from her own, looking back at his two companions.

Janet stepped in on his heels, her long, lustrous blond hair falling into her laughing eyes. Minerva knew without looking that Keith would be right behind her. It wasn't right. They shouldn't be allowed to gang up on her like this... they...

"We want to open a wizard's college."

"You what?" she sputtered. Goddamn it, where were those house-elves when you needed them? She had begged them for Muggle sedatives earlier that day.

"A wizard's college." Keith picked up where Oyster had left off, leaning forward, his black eyes serious, his shaggy, dark hair falling forward as he looked up at his Transfiguration professer.

Oyster nodded to him and went on. "It's our fifth year – we were told to decide, and we have. We've taken every class in this school. If I haven't done it, Janet has, or Keith. We want to start planning for our own classes now."

If she had a cardiac arrest now, she would come back and haunt these cursed three until the end of time. Already she could feel the stroke bucking and clawing its way up her throat.

It emerged in a squeak.

"How – how –"

Minerva closed her lips, feeling faint. They couldn't. They mustn't. Their students would go mad, insane, just like these three were. If they opened a bloody college – oh, hell take the world, where were those DAMN sedatives??

Janet stood, her blonde tresses swinging to and fro as she paced. "I want to help people," she told Minerva, her voice for once devoid of its disparaging quality. "I'm not exactly in the best mindframe to do so, but Oyster and Keith..." The two traded looks, looks that said Here we go again! "I love them. I want to work with them for the rest of my life, and with students, and with laughter and craziness and magic... Can you understand?"

Minerva met her eyes. She would have screamed Never! in an instant, but her voice seemed to have run away, out of stark terror. Dizziness was chewing at her vision.

"I know you can," Janet Starlight said. Her famed silver eyes seemed to glow as she smiled. "I know you understand, because you had the same dream when you were my age, didn't you?"

And Minerva McGonagall found her voice.

"Like bloody hell I did!" she spat, on her feet before she realized that she had regained the ability to move. "I wanted to keep my students sane, and successful. You three will make yours positively mad! I don't know where I failed with you, but you will _not_ go on to make others as insane."

Oyster was standing too. His voice grew in volume, matching hers. "You agreed to support our dreams when you took us into the Great Hall five years ago!"

But it was Keith who looked her in the eye, whose voice did not sink above its dry murmur, whose voice would haunt her at night for years to come. "You cannot stop us, my dear Professor. We are combining our savings to bid for land. We are beginning to receive applications. You see, we wanted to be famous when we entered this school; but we will be famous when we enter our own."

Minerva had stared from his composed face, to Oyster's fury, to Janet's shock. And she could find nothing to say.

* * *

Minerva opened her eyes to find that they burned. "They didn't," she whispered. "They never spoke another word to me about it. I thought they had all gone off and married bankers. They never..."

"They did."

She wanted to weep. Those three had been unbearable during the seven years she had fought them. Oyster's mind was filthy in its perverseness (worse, he had no qualms about sharing nasty images with his teachers). Janet challenged her every word, her tones sharp with anger, with malice, with a classic sarcasm that not even time could sand away. And Keith was bizarre, the level of oddity just enough to put up with, even assist their insane plans.

"I never thought they would have the gall..." she murmured, her throat choked with shock.

Dumbledore handed her an envelope silently.

Instinctively she looked at the seal. Two painfully bright colors got inside her eyes and started playing jump-rope with her optic nerves. Even the third color, gray, seemed to have a distinctly bright hue when coupled with the peachy pink and a purple that should be illegal.

When she had gotten control of her eyesight again, she squinted at it.

It was circular, and divided like the peace symbol. On the left larger segment was the eye-smarting purple, which formed a blobby shape that looked oddly like a koala. Purple koalas... And opposite this, a pale mosquito against the shifting gray.

"The House of Utter Insanity," Dumbledore supplied, pointing at the purple koalas. His forefinger moved to the mosquito. "And the House of Annoying Jerk-Offs, also known as The Cynics."

Minerva peered at the third section, down at the bottom. It was the peach. She squinted until she was cross-eyed and only managed to make out what looked like a long cylinder.

"And the House of the Filthy Minded," Dumbledore continued, carefully staring at the ceiling.

She fought it, she really did, but a huge snort of laughter spurted out of her nostrils anyway. "That would definitely be Oyster's House."

"Probably."

Still chuckling slightly, Minerva slit open the letter.

_My dearest Dumbledore,_

_I hope this finds you in good health. It would be most distressing to find that my memory of you is no longer valid. Your memory of me, however, is quite likely still valid. I am as prime as ever._

_To get quickly to the point – an old fart like you has no time to spare, in all likelihood – I must make a request... British wizard applications to our college are becoming fewer and fewer. Wet Carpets is quite distressed by this, and while we have been taking applications from all over the world, I am disturbed by the lack of enthusiasm from my native country._

_Janet says they must remember what I was like, but I don't believe her._

_Please coax some of your seventh years into applying. We can hardly be choosy, can we?_

_Also, send for my dear Minerva the instant you receive this. I have a message for her. She was the only one who really hated us as her students. Now, as her colleague, I offer words of condolence: our school motto._

_Et tout le reste est litterature._

_Love as always, though only paternal –_

_Oyster._

"The fear of it," Minerva sighed, and slumped against the wall. "What do we do now, Albus?"

"We humor them."

"But-!"

The ancient wizard held up a palm, blue eyes sparking with amusement. "The experience will no doubt be memorable. And this might take care of another problem I've been considering." He took the letter from her, read its Latin phrase with amusement. "Et tout le reste est litterature."

Minerva was too exhausted and horrified to strain her memory of Muggle languages. "What does that even mean?" she demanded wearily.

Albus was silent so long that she began to wonder if he had heard. Then the old wizard's shoulders began to shake with laughter.

"It's Verlaine. Eighteenth century. Oh, Binns would be proud..."

"What is it?!"

Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Order of Merlin (First Class), and Founder of the Order of the Phoenix, repeated the phrase in wry amusement.

"'All the rest is mere fine writing.'"

Minerva sat back, and mulled over that for a moment. "That is going to be one mad school," she commented.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. "I'll fill out the recommendation forms at once."

"Is that wise?" His transfiguration professor became instantly alert, watching him shuffle for papers.

"Not at all, my dear. But we have been forewarned. Your seventh-years are going to have to read the application sheets very carefully indeed."

Minerva waited a few moments before she trusted herself to speak calmly. "Are you sure this is a good idea, Albus?"

He glanced at her with somber eyes. "The safety of our students has always been most important, Minerva."

"How is sending them there 'safe'?"

Dumbledore sighed and put down the letter, glancing one last time at the brilliant seal. Hesitantly at first, and then with growing confidence, he began to explain his idea. And Minerva had to admit it certainly was a good one.

* * *

Thanks for reading my beautimous prologue! I have a few comments to say before I steer you in the direction of the review button:

Technically I had this idea two years ago. I wrote my own American version of Hogwarts, in a leather journal that nobody will ever see. I then wrote and discarded a series of short stories involving my friends and I in another Hogwarts spinoff.

But now I have the right cast.

Ethan, dear, I lied when I said your birthday present would be a LOTR crossover. It was too much of a struggle. You ARE Oyster, that much is plain. I even stole his looks from you.

Janet was born from the series Artemis Fowl. Guess who.

And Keith... I don't know who Keith is. I'll find out eventually. Something about him reminds me of the star from 10 Things I Hate About You.

Well, I don't know if this story will go anywhere. It's very fun to write though, or at least, these past five pages have been. Review to help me decide!

See you in the maybe-perhaps of Chapter Two, and leave me your name and a brief description if you want to be a student in Wet Carpets! Ethan, or Oyster I should say, happy birthday!

Love, all,

Tessa


	2. Chapter One: Of Koalas and Chaos

REWRITTEN

* * *

Chapter One: Of Koalas and Chaos

* * *

_I believe in self assertion,  
  
Destiny is like diversion  
  
Now it seems I've got my head on straight  
  
I'm a freak without provision  
  
Seems I made the right decision  
  
Try to turn back now, it might be too late...  
_  
Self, "Stay Home"

* * *

Somewhere, the sun was rising...  
  
Pink lights streaked the sky, tinted the cottonwood leaves, gave a reddish tone to the first few owls bearing Daily Prophets to their customers, among other things. They all seemed to have the same destination: a castle squatting on the crest of a hill, its stonework crossing from medieval into slightly unreal. For example, there was a neon-green Bug parked in front of the iron gate, a blonde leaning slightly on its hood as she stared up at the castle.  
  
Her eyes were fixed on an open window set high in the first of the towers.  
  
The room was filled with a gentle snoring. As the bed's occupant exhaled, a shelf of dangerous-looking potions shivered slightly above the headboard; where their formidable numbers ended, a copy of Lord of the Rings sat, its well-loved pages dog-eared and stained with acidic fingerprints. Everything was slowly being tinted pink as the sun's rays filtered in, half-blinding, coloring everything they touched (unless, of course, the item is already pink).  
  
And it is doubtful that Hello Kitty sunglasses can get much pinker.  
  
The alarm went off.  
  
Oyster mumbled blearily and stuck a hand out of bed, fumbling blindly on top of his bedside table. He successfully knocked off an empty Coca Cola can, a Remembrall that did not belong to him, his wand, and the sunglasses. The drone went on, and he mumbled something else, a word that indicated he was probably a little more awake.  
  
His hand found the clock, and pushed a couple of buttons in vain. It was growing in volume now.  
  
With groggy accuracy, he made a freckled fist and slammed it down on the clock, effectively smashing it without opening his eyes. If the clock still said 7:00 that afternoon, who would know? The useless thing was old anyway...  
  
Oyster's eyes flew open as the alarm continued to beep. What was wrong with the stupid batteries? Did it even have batteries? He couldn't remember. He didn't think he even had an alarm clock. Staring at it, he rapped on the top of the clock. The drone hiccupped slightly and then continued.  
  
Slightly afraid now, he sat up in bed and tentatively poked the OFF button. It bit him.  
  
"Bloody hell!" Red juice welled up from the nip on his thumb. He stared at it, wondering, _How does an alarm clock_ bite _someone?_  
  
The drone went on, gaining volume and pitch, and Oyster picked it up gingerly. He carried it over to the window, opened the panes, and threw it out.  
  
The blonde laughed at him, leaning heavily against her lime-colored car. Oyster swore as he noticed her. Understanding and annoyance suddenly dawned in his brown eyes and he leaned out the window. "Next time you want me to get up on time, send an owl, not a monster!" he shouted down. "The thing _bit_ me, Janet!"  
  
"I don't care. You probably deserved it," she called. "Get your scrawny ass down here! We're going to be late! Or did you forget that I told you to be ready by seven?"  
  
"Why don't you pick on Keith for a change?" he demanded, yanking robes on over his pink pajamas.  
  
"Because he doesn't attempt to sleep for two days at a time!"  
  
It was true. They both knew it.  
  
"Are you coming?!"  
  
Oyster growled something, snatched up his wand and a tattered Nimbus 2000 that lay by his bed, and vaulted out the window. A stunt that would have made Minerva flinch.  
  
_It's bloody cool for mid-July_, the redhead thought as he descended. The fact that their premises was in Canada might have had something to do with the chill breeze, its brittle fingers ruffling his trademark auburn hair.  
  
"You'd better have a comb or something in the car," he muttered, more to himself than to Janet as his broom weaved and plunged towards the ground. "I'll get you for this one. Where on earth do you find these things? A biting alarm clock? That cuts me deep, Janet, real deep."  
  
His feet skimmed the grass and he came to a halt abruptly, sliding from flight into a dead-out run for the car. Janet Starlight watched him with a scowl as she held the passenger door open. "Get in. Right now. I can't believe you're doing this to me. I told you not to be late bloody eight times!"  
  
"More like eighty," Oyster said under his breath as he climbed in.  
  
Janet slammed the car door on his broomstick. "Jerk."  
  
"Terrorist."

* * *

The Ministry of Magic for North America was in New York. The earlier ministers had built it in the shabbiest, most dilapidated part of the city, shrewdly assuming that most intelligent Muggles would not be caught dead around the black neighborhoods. There were drugs, brawls, and uncensored activity rumored to lie thick around those streets. However, as the old riddle would have it: _rumor is invisible but everywhere, swift as a wind but has no feet, and has as many tongues that speak yet has no face...  
_  
Nobody ever thought to ask if the disrepair was intended.  
  
Similar to its twin in Britain, the American Ministry of Magic's entrance was an old, unstable telephone booth, with a directory stained past recognition and numbers faded to dust from their square buttons. Cobwebs robed the dirty glass, and dust, long undisturbed, was scuffled and scraped to one side as two travelers entered, looking around with shifty expressions.  
  
The ministers had thought that perhaps their precaution would keep idiots out. This would have been a marvelous system if they had warded against idiocy in general, not just Muggles.  
  
"How do you turn this thing on? It said press 24264 and I did and it didn't do anything except flash the little light. Why the hell do they even have this light? It's so stupid. It doesn't even do anyth- what, it's on? How can you tell? Well nobody told me that the light meant it was on! They used to have a funky little buzzer! I want to know what happened to the buzzer!"  
  
Janet pushed her incompetent partner in magic aside with disgust and stepped up to the receiver. Condescendingly, she pressed 24264 with slow deliberation. The white light flashed again.  
  
"This is Janet Starlight," she informed the receiver, speaking with careful enunciation. "Oyster and I are here for the Ministry hearing at seven fifteen?"  
  
"It was green. Bright green. And it did this cute little thing where it hiccupped at the end. It was nasal... it reminded me of the cucumber person from Veggie Tales... wow, and cucumbers are even green!"  
  
"How can a buzzer be nasal?" demanded Janet, distracted for a moment by her companion's rambling. "It doesn't even have a nose to be nasal with."  
  
They were interrupted by a cool female voice, copyrighted by the British Ministry. Two Visitor pins rattled out of the change slot as she spoke. "Thank you for your time... have a pleasant visit at the Ministry."  
  
Muttering darkly to herself, the blonde pinned one to her pale blue hoodie. Her companion inspected his carefully first, however.  
  
OYSTER  
  
WET CARPETS FOUNDER  
  
MINISTRY HEARING  
  
"Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium," the cool female voice declaimed in their ears.  
  
"What?" Janet Starlight protested as the booth prepared itself to descend into the lower levels of New York City. "We don't have time, we're going to be late!"  
  
"I don't think we have much of a choice," Oyster commented, watching the booth intently as it gave a massive shudder and began to descend into the suddenly permeable asphalt. The vandalized scenery around them passed out of view. His stomach clenched at the eeriness. Riding an elevator was an entirely different sensation... it never made you feel that you were being swallowed up by the earth.  
  
Janet was swaying from one foot to the other, bobbing nervously as she, too, watched the Underground rise up around them. "We're going to be late..." she repeated anxiously.  
  
Every year, before the first semester of their college started, the trio had a Ministry hearing. They were bloody good teachers (if slightly insane), and everyone knew that, but Keith was poor, and Oyster and Janet had put all their savings into construction of Wet Carpets. It cost a lot to start the school (especially since they had just emerged from Hogwarts, with hardly a Knut in their pockets), but the three soon discovered that it cost nearly as much to maintain it. Nevertheless, it was one of only three wizarding colleges, and so the Ministry granted them a generous lease for its continuation every year... if they could be convinced that Wet Carpets was more than a pathetic whim. So far, Janet had won them three sponsorships: it had covered all of their first three years.  
  
Now, in mid-July, with a month and a half to go before the college would open its fourth year, they needed rent again.  
  
Hence the hearing.  
  
They had just finished their third round of instruction, meaning that the upcoming year's end would herald the graduation of Seniors. Janet was far more worried about it than the boys were; she kept saying that they would have more students this year in Wet Carpets than they knew how to handle, since all four years' worth would be filled, from freshman to Senior. Their castle would cost more than ever to maintain.  
  
Oyster didn't think it was that big a deal, but if Janet Starlight did, than the Ministry might. And it was the Ministry that was responsible for the growing knot in his stomach.  
  
The telephone booth shuddered to a stop.  
  
Both twenty-one-year-olds barreled out of the tattered confinement. There was a moment when they stood, completely lost, as a crowd surged around them, bits of conversation piecing together to form a kaleidoscope of confusion.  
  
"Morning Peebles! What news from Egypt's unit?"  
  
"Chuck got flamed by a what??"  
  
"I kept telling you, someone's forging Gallions, but noo..."  
  
"Hey Daffy!"  
  
"Step right this way, please..."  
  
"- tried the new Muggle thing, some sort of glazed doughnut, odd stuff-"  
  
"Fabulous hat, Eileen..."  
  
"'M a Wal-Mart customer..."  
  
"Excuse me? Step over here, please?"  
  
Oyster became aware that this last was directed to them. A short, stocky man with pointed ears was bobbing up and down on the stone floor nervously, much as Janet had in the booth. He tapped his friend on the shoulder and gestured. She let out a huff of impatience. "We don't have time!"  
  
"This will just take a moment," the short wizard said sympathetically, and skimmed them both over with a slender golden rod, being efficient in his haste. "Wand check?"  
  
Silently Oyster handed his over. Janet groaned.  
  
"Used ten years, oak, nine inches, hair of a..." The wizard stumbled. "purple koala, is that correct?"  
  
"Yes," the redhead said tersely.  
  
"Funny, we had one of those just this morning..." their guide mused as he accepted Janet's wand. "Never seen the like. British bloke, same accent as you two."  
  
"Keith!" She jumped in her excitement. "Where is he now, do you know?"  
  
"Ministry hearing, I believe, level five, courtroom five. Willow, twelve inches, hair of a purple koala. Ten years in use." He frowned at the slim wood. "Three in one day... that's unusual. Didn't think that purple koala hair was that popular anymore."  
  
"Fascinating." Janet snatched at her wand and turned on her heel, staring wildly over the heads of the crowd. A Magical Brethren fountain, an exact replica of its twin in Britain, caught her eye across the lobby. Just beyond it was a sign that said **Ministry Lifts**. "There they are, Oyster, let's go!"  
  
"Thank you," Oyster called to the affronted wizard. Janet grabbed his wrist and pulled him along.  
  
"We're three minutes late!"  
  
"Calm down, would you?" Oyster demanded as they skidded to a halt in front of the lifts. His companion danced frantically as she punched at the Down button. "Everybody's late to their hearings. It's traditional."  
  
"How can you say that when the next two semesters of Wet Carpets depend on our punctuality!"  
  
"Janet. Breathe with me, okay? It's a twenty-minute conference. It's not that important! Keith is probably already th-" Oyster was cut short as Janet yanked him into an empty lift.  
  
"Level five!" she hissed at the audio –command panel.  
  
Her friend turned a sickly white as the wizard elevator dropped obediently. "Oooh, I'm glad I didn't have time for breakfast..."  
  
They were hurled backwards as it sprang to a halt. "Level Five: Judiciary Courtrooms, Wizengamot, Leases and Ministry Grants, trial offices," a mechanical voice recited dully.  
  
"Come on," Janet gasped, as pale as Oyster, and dragged him out into the corridor.  
  
He sprinted at her heels, sucking for air as the lithe blonde darted through the empty halls. Words burst in little bubbles from his lips. "I - don't – think – running is – necessary – not that – late! – slow d-"  
  
She stopped abruptly. Oyster's legs pedaled themselves past her before they noticed, much to their owner's chagrin. Ignoring the succession of crashes behind her, Janet lifted a finger and traced the number on the bronze plaque.  
  
"Courtroom five."  
  
"Is that it?" Oyster lurched to her side.  
  
She took in a huge breath and finally seemed to relax a little. Turning, she adjusted his robes so that they didn't show the pink cotton pajamas underneath.  
  
"Yes. Try not to act stupid, will you?" She patted his head, a random but kind gesture.  
  
The redhead decided that this would be a very good time not to say anything.  
  
They went in.

* * *

"You're late."  
  
It was the first thing Oyster heard as he stood in the light, blinking stupidly to adjust his eyes.  
  
"His fault, Minister," Janet said piously. "He always tries to sleep as long as he can. I think the record is two days."  
  
"We're not interested. Take your seats," the masculine voice rapped out.  
  
A lease hearing was dissimilar to a trial, where the accused was isolated and possibly shackled. Instead, there were reserved seats to one side of the courtroom, just to the side of the nine-member jury. All members asking for the Ministry's lease were questioned, then timed, each allowed a two- minute speech. There was no Wizengamot assembled, for they dealt only with crime. The solemnity of the situation, however, was equally forbidding, as a voluntary jury voted for a grant or not.  
  
This was where the American wizards' judicial differed from the Britain; the bank was really a branch of the Ministry, much as legislative is to government. The Minister and his peers themselves granted all huge land rights, as well as the larger of the allowances, and let the Gringotts managers decide smaller matters and handle transactions.  
  
The pair of aspiring teachers knew the ritual well, after three previous hearings, and found their way over to their assigned seats.  
  
Someone was already there.  
  
Two someones.  
  
"Keith!" Janet flung her arms around him. "You beat us here! You wouldn't have believed Oyster this morning, I had to set a bloody biting alarm clock."  
  
Oyster was ignoring her. His eyes were fixed on the creature in Keith's lap.  
  
"You brought Panda??" he hissed.  
  
"Yes... I thought she could help us..." Keith asserted defensively, but in an undertone.  
  
"It's a bloody freak of nature!"  
  
"You didn't think she was a freak when we charged our wands with her hair!"  
  
"'Cos purple koalas are magical, not intellectual! I can't believe this."  
  
"You just don't like her 'cos she talks Latin and you don't know what she's saying!" Keith whispered furiously. "She's our mascot!"  
  
"Will you be silent!" The Minister, a chap by the name of Tom Hanks, had a voice damning in its ferocity.  
  
Janet squeaked. Oyster sighed and sat up obediently, though he cast another look at the purple koala sitting in Keith's lap. It blinked irritably at him and said, in tones loud enough for the whole courtroom to hear, "_Vis consili expers mole ruit sua_."  
  
A portion of the jury started laughing as they deciphered the comment. The redhead exploded, on his feet in an instant. "See! Do you see! What does that even mean?"  
  
"If we may," Tom began dangerously, as Keith began protesting loudly, "begin this entire assembly over?"  
  
"That would be most wise," an incredibly dry voice commented from Tom's right.  
  
All three miscreants stopped shouting at the sound of the familiar tones.  
  
"P-professor?" Janet said blankly.  
  
Oyster knew how she felt. None of their old teachers had even come to see Wet Carpets, much less attend a meeting to decide its fate. Most had just been bloody thankful to get rid of them, and turned their attention to more important matters, such as repairing the damage that their ventures had caused. Not one of their old teachers had even attempted to invest time for some madbrain college.  
  
Certainly not Dumbledore!

A bewildered frown crossed Oyster's face. Why in God's name was Dumbledore here? He had never been concerned about Wet Carpets before... why was he suddenly so interested?  
  
The sage wizard, for it was he, rose slowly to his feet on the other side of the Minister, frowning at his former students. The trio immediately sat up straight, muttering inaudible apologies.  
  
"He must have got my letter," Oyster breathed to the others.  
  
"Excellent discipline," Tom commented, nodding to Dumbledore. "Allow me to use that to get back to the subject of a sponsorship, for it is such discipline we look for in..." his stern gaze trailed on each one of them "...candidates."  
  
"Self-discipline, or just discipline?" Janet piped before Oyster could step on her foot.  
  
Dumbledore's eyebrows snapped together. "Both."  
  
"This is a small matter. It shouldn't take us more than another ten minutes to sort out! Your purpose here?" Tom intervened, madly trying to get everyone back on a course of some formality.  
  
This time it was Keith who spoke up, talking fast as he caught wind of his Minister's urgency. "We need a lease for our wizard's college, Wet Carpets."  
  
"Why should we give it to you?"  
  
"'Cos we're bloody broke," Janet muttered. This time Oyster could, and did, stomp on her foot, and she swore loud enough for the entire jury behind her to hear. One of them hacked into a Kleenex to hide her unholy giggles.  
  
"Because we wish to educate, and prosper, and help our students prosper," Keith suggested, shooting a glare over his shoulder.  
  
Tom was scowling. "Seems like you just want to make a commotion."  
  
"That too," whispered Janet. Oyster sat on her.  
  
"How much were you considering?" the Minister demanded of Keith, whom he seemed to have dubbed the sanest person there.  
  
Keith looked at Janet, their treasurer. Composing herself, she named their amount.  
  
Everyone else winced.  
  
"That much?" Oyster hissed. "Try half of that!"  
  
She ignored him. "We have to pay for board of nearly a hundred students. We pay minimal wage to our house-elves, in accordance with the S.P.E.W. committee." Dumbledore smiled to himself, remembering Hermione Granger's elation when the bill was passed in her sixth year. Almost two years ago now. "We also pay for food intake, spell provision, and general management, as well as an emergency reserve."  
  
Tom stared at her and then at the clock. A meeting that was only supposed to take half an hour at the most was already half over. They had to speed things up if he was to get out in time for the International Quidditch conference.  
  
"You each have two minutes," he sighed. "Tell us why we should give you so much."  
  
Janet got to her feet, long strands of golden hair falling away from her face. Her countenance almost would have been pretty if she hadn't been frowning. "Three years ago we came to this Ministry with a proposal," she began, talking fast. "We had three thousand Gallions saved, which is a lot, but not nearly enough. We had nothing except for our wands, a purple koala, and an ambition. They told us – you told us – to go ahead and start making our childhood dream come to life.  
  
"We did. We bought the premises and shaped the school with the best of our peers and some Ministry specialists. It's not as wonderful, or as intricate as Hogwarts-" and she flashed a timid smile at Dumbledore, who returned it heartily "-but it's enough.  
  
"It's not enough for our students. They need food, and board, and above all, lessons to fulfill their time at our college. We are paid well, fairly well, by their applications. But not as many applied this year as we would like. In fact, we only have six freshmen, and our entire year depends on more students and more funding.  
  
"We need the Ministry's help if we're going to turn Wet Carpets into a-"  
  
The timer dinged, drowning out the words she murmured almost to herself. "A real school."  
  
"Go," Tom ordered Oyster, unmoved by Janet's nostalgia. "Two minutes!"  
  
He stood up as the blonde sat down, uncertain. Everyone was watching him; the nine jury members, Dumbledore, the Minister, his peers. For a moment his tongue was stuck. A diary moment.  
  
"Go!" the Minister of North America all but shouted. He was entitled. He hadn't had caffeine that morning... damn Starbucks and its new working hours anyway.  
  
Startled, the redhead was spurred into speech.  
  
"I came to Hogwarts... ten years ago. And I met these two. And we just kind of. Clicked. We wanted to do something brilliant together. All right, we're not that composed. Or sane." Oyster fumbled for the right words. "But we are determined, and that's something that no amount of Gallions or Ministers can change!... If's we're broke, we'll teach on the streets. Or something. Cos it's what we always wanted to do. Right from the beginning. And our teachers won't speak for us 'cos we drove the lot bloody nuts, but..."  
  
He thought for a long time. Janet buried her head in her hands in despair.  
  
"We should get this sponsorship for the same reason we always have. We're trying to do something good."  
  
Tom stared at him. Silence stretched on until the timer dinged.  
  
"Alright. Keith, was it? Speak up, la- _now _what?"  
  
Keith was holding up Panda. "She'll speak for me," he said proudly, displaying the koala to everyone in the room.  
  
"I refuse to sit here and listen to a purple koala!" a member of the jury growled, fingering his ginger moustache. "This is insane! Why should we listen to it?"  
  
"_Inceptis gravibus plerumque et magna professis purpureus, late qui splendeat, unus et altar adsuiter pannus_," Panda said coldly.  
  
There was a moment of silence, and then Dumbledore began to clap, slowly but loudly, a twinkle glittering in his eyes. Two members of the jury, who had understood, joined him, chuckling softly.  
  
Oyster pointed at it, shakily. "It's creepy isn't it?!"  
  
Tom scowled. "I don't understand Latin. Will someone decipher it?"  
  
"'Often on a work of grave purpose and high promises is tacked a purple patch or two, to give an effect of colour,'" Dumbledore quoted, looking over his half-moon glasses with approval. "Horace, 65-8 B.C. Let it speak, Tom. It's a smart one."  
  
"Her," Keith murmured, barely audible, but still firm. "Panda is a her."  
  
Tom silenced him as the koala began to speak, a human voice tinged slightly with femininity and the long slow language of leaves.  
  
"_Felices ter et amplius_," Panda began, slowly. "_Quos irrupta tenet copula nec malis divulsis querimoniis suprema citius solvet amor die_."  
  
"Horace again," commented Dumbledore. "'Thrice happy they, and more than thrice, whom an unbroken bond holds fast, and whom love, never torn asunder by foolish quarrellings, will not let loose until life's last day.'"  
  
"_Igneus est ollis vigor et caelestis origo seminibus_."  
  
"Virgil, 70-19 B.C. 'To these seeds a flame-like vigor pertains and an origin celestial,'" the Headmaster translated as the timer went off.  
  
"She wasn't finished!" Keith protested.  
  
"I don't have time for this," Tom declared disgustedly, head in hands. "I have a bloody conference! All in favor of denying them the lease, raise your hands."  
  
Oyster didn't count fast enough. Was that four, or five out of the jury?  
  
"In favor of giving it to them?"  
  
The other four displayed palms, as well as Dumbledore. Five to five. The trio looked up at their Minister in desperation, begging without words.  
  
He sat and glared at them for a while, and then at the clock.  
  
"Oh, damn you all to hell. Take it, then." Getting to his feet, he swept out of the courtroom. The door banged shut on his muttering. "I'm already bloody late, going to plague me with those damn owls..."  
  
There was a brief moment of incredulous silence. The jury members sighed and rose to their feet as one. Oyster's eyelid twitched slightly.  
  
"WE GOT IT! WE GOT IT!"  
  
Janet and Keith flung their arms around each other and squealed, dancing round in little happy circles as they repeated their new mantra. Panda ran away from their trampling feet. Filing out, the jury cast them looks, some disgusted, some amused.  
  
Oyster looked up at Dumbledore, who was walking towards him purposefully. Passing close to his former student, he pressed an immense folder into the younger wizard's arms.  
  
"Recommendations... I got your letter and put this together almost instantly," the sage headmaster commented dryly.  
  
"Thank you." The redhead fumbled for a moment. "You saved us, pretty much. Up there."  
  
Dumbledore shrugged and winked.  
  
"Have a nice school year, Oyster."  
  
"Oh, we will," Oyster whispered, looking down at the folder. "We will."

Dumbledore chuckled to himself, in recollection of some private jest, before moving out after the jury. "Indeed." Pausing at the doorway, as though he had just remembered something, he called, "Keith, may I have a word?"

Keith looked bewildered, for all he assented quickly enough. Oyster's eyes followed them keenly as they moved into a corner; his former headmaster began talking urgently under his breath, so quietly that the redhead only caught snippets of conversation.

"It is absolutely imperative that..... mumble... still endangered. You know.... boy has no idea.... mumble. His friends will know. No... Head Girl can be trusted... You do understand why this is so important... Minerva says mumble..."

Keith cut in with a sharp, indignant reply.

"No, I know that.... look, just make sure that they all get in, I'll take care of the rest."

His former student finally nodded, almost reluctantly, and Dumbledore left, with a nod to the insatiably curious Janet; Keith rejoined his companions looking decidedly worried.

"What was that about?" Janet demanded.

"Nothing," he replied, but he sounded unsettled.

Oyster followed them out of the courtroom in utter bewilderment.

* * *

I've never seen the like. Ten bloody pages. I outdid myself. And I don't know if I'm too happy with the result... I might come back and edit this one later. Latin speaking koala bears! Tom Hanks... yup, I outdid myself.  
  
Overdid, more like.  
  
This was kind of a fast-paced chapter. I'll mute it down next time... if I do another chapter, and that balances on my REVIEWS!  
  
Don't forget, if you want to be a student, tell me in your review  
  
Happy... continuated birthday, Ethan?  
  
Ta,  
  
Tessa  
  
Oh, btw, "Vis consili expers mole ruit sua" means, to some effect, "Force without mind falls from its own weight". Something like that. I can't find the direct quote. XD Poor Oyster!


	3. Chapter Two: Friendships

REWRITTEN

* * *

Chapter Two: Friendships

* * *

_Ain't no talking to this man,  
  
He's been trying to tell me so,  
  
Took a while to understand  
  
The beauty of just letting go.  
  
Cause it would take an acrobat  
  
And I already tried all that,  
  
I'm gonna let him fly._  
  
The Dixie Chicks, "Let Him Fly"

* * *

"I love days like this," Tessa sighed, stretching out in the grass in utter contentment. "Just look at that sky. Look at it!"  
  
Snoopy, as she was nicknamed by her best friends, was obliged to look. "There are clouds, you know," she remarked dryly, staring upwards. "We've had better."  
  
"No, because clouds mean that it might rain, and I love the rain; but there's not enough up there yet to spoil this sun." The stocky brunette stretched in the light, closing her eyes against the yellow glare.  
  
"I just hope it doesn't pour at Marie's welcome-home party this afternoon," her friend commented, pessimistic in the hot hours of the day. "We've invited half the state, it seems like." So saying, she flicked her brown, wavy hair out of her eyes in a gesture of irritation.  
  
"Half the planet!" was the enthusiastic rejoinder.  
  
"I can't wait to see her," Snoopy said, a tone of affection suffusing her voice. "You realize that she spent the entire last semester of term in Denmark?"  
  
"Yes, the lucky twit." Envy flickered across Tessa's face. "But we've got our N.E.W.T.S. now, and it's summer." She smiled without opening her eyes. "We'll see her in a few hours."  
  
Both were silent as they thought of their dearest friend, a ginger-haired, pale-skinned, freckled witch with a fondness for celtic jewelry and an unnerving interest in dragons. "Dragons," she had once claimed, "are the noblest of the serpent line, for given to them are the elements of air and flame." Equipped with Danish accent and a trained ear for laughter, she was a unique and selfless spirit, one whom they had missed terribly the last few months of wizard school. They sent owls to each other every week. It was hard to believe that soon they would reunite.  
  
"And we're out of school," Tessa added, as if this were the crowning glory.  
  
Snoopy collapsed on her side next to the seventeen-year-old, watching her with a faint smile on her lips. "Till autumn, anyway..." It was her turn to sigh. "Dunno why we have to go to college anyway, we're certainly adept enough."  
  
Tessa smiled again, wider this time, thinking back to something that she had received only two nights before.  
  
"Did you ever get your acceptance letter?" she asked, suddenly curious.  
  
Snoopy didn't reply. Gray eyes blurred before she could stop them, but she put on a wry expression to mask her disappointment. "Nah, not yet. But it's only the third week of July. The Heads are bound to be still working on them, right? I mean, you only got yours two days ago."  
  
"Bound to be," Tessa replied, crossing her fingers for luck, though she couldn't quite force her secretive smile to go away.  
  
The letter had been written in pink ink.

* * *

Dear Tessa, newly graduated resident of Denver;  
  
We are pleased to inform you that your application has been registered and accepted at Wet Carpets, Canadian College of Mayhem and Magic. Appropriate payment (300 lbs, or 430 Gallions the cost of your first year) has been taken from your Gringotts account. Notify us in six days if you wish to withdraw your enrollment and we will refund all of the transacted amount.  
  
Term starts on the second of September, as the first will be occupied with travel, arrival, and the beginning-of-year feast, during which you will be Sorted. Houses are as follows: the House of Utter Insanity, the House of Annoying Jerk-Offs (a.k.a. The Cynics), and the House of the Filthy Minded.  
  
Please remember that notification of enrollment must not exceed August 25th, a week before the first semester begins. Students will board in the castle unless other arrangements have been made.  
  
Enclosed is a list of requirements, regulations, cautions, classes, and necessary equipment.  
  
We look forward to your company in the fall.  
  
Oyster  
  
(One of the) Founders of the School  
  
Head of the House of the Filthy Minded

* * *

Oyster set his flamingo quill back into the neon-pink inkwell and leaned back, sighing slightly. How he had been delegated the task of writing and sending off acceptance letters, he couldn't recall; but they were a right pain, and he rather suspected that Keith had had something to do with the inconvenient lack of owls around the castle. Keith, who stood as the Care of Dangerous Magical Creatures professor, had just had a batch of griffin cubs delivered to Wet Carpets. The predators were cute, but not if you had a pile of acceptance letters to send off.  
  
The letters in question, heaped in multiple stacks to one side of his inkwell, drew his eye to them. He smiled, almost absently. It was still hard to believe that four days ago, they only had received six applications. Once the Ministry had given their blessing, the letters poured in. Janet had been right when she said that this would be their biggest school year.  
  
And what a crowd! About eight were Canadian, twelve American, one Danish, and four Irish. Some had even sent in applications from Latin America, Asia, and New Zealand.  
  
"What about Britain?" Janet had demanded irritably when he told her.  
  
Oyster had grimaced then, and he grimaced now, rubbing pink-inky fingers over his face. Dumbledore had taken him at his word when he said he wanted more interest from his homeland. The man had given him ten bloody recommendations to sort through, two from each House except Gryffindor, from which the Headmaster had chosen four.  
  
Thirty, all in all. Thirty freshmen applications. With their policy as it was - six students to a House, three Houses in the school – they only had room for eighteen, possibly twenty-one if they stretched it to seven students per House. If Oyster had kept his mouth shut and not written that cursed letter to Dumbledore, they would have had enough.  
  
_Now we have too many!_  
  
"Unbelievable," he said aloud, but he had to smile. Wet Carpets was turning into a real, prospering college, right before his eyes. "Absolutely unbelievable."  
  
He swiveled in his chair and looked out the window. A tower bedroom, particularly one built four levels above the Filthy Minded common room, had a most lovely view of the grounds: typical Canadian tundra setting backed by dark woodland. Below, stark against the lawn, Keith was feeding his new batch of griffins. Shrieks of competition and hunger tore the still midmorning air.  
  
Oyster leaned out of the window, amplifying his voice with a brief charm. "Will you clear your lot off?" he demanded, speaking normally. "You've scared all the owls away; you and those snarling demons."  
  
"Some people have no appreciation for nature's finest," Keith shouted back as he offered a ferret to one of his charges. There was a snap and an explosion of fur. "Go to the Owlery if you've a mind to send letters."  
  
The redhead, about to retort, thought better of it. Although on the far side of the school, the Wet Carpets Owlery probably had at least three or four birds to deliver for him, whereas standing at the window and fighting with another Head of House was bound to deliver him only to the wrath of the starving griffins.  
  
Turning away, Oyster shuffled his parchment until it was more or less in a single stack. His eye fell on the topmost paper. He paused, stricken, then snatched at it, reading it with wide-eyed speed.  
  
This was one application that he had _not_ answered.  
  
"No," he whispered as he read, trembling with shock and excitement and horror. "No..."  
  
Finished, he sprang to the window, staring with disbelief at his distant peer. "KEITH!" he bellowed, waving the paper at him and forgetting that he still had his amplifier spell working. The result was a blast of sound. "Tell me that you didn't look through Dumbledore's recommendations!"  
  
"It took you so long to get around to them that I figured I might as well have a peep and answer the most important on my own," was the cool reply. "Will you hurry up and send it off?"  
  
"We're not ready for this one! He's a bloody Auror!"  
  
"Not yet, you idiot. He's just a student."  
  
Oyster broke out in a sweat, despite the uncanny cool air. "Just a student?! You – oh, never mind. Why is he coming _here_? We can't train an Auror!"  
  
"It's not for us to question personal motives," Keith shouted back. "Send the acceptance letters, will you?"  
  
"He almost died," Oyster whispered, staring at the paper. "He almost died, but he _lived _-and he's coming _here_...?"  
  
"Look, Dumbledore requested it, okay?"

The redhead paused in midrant and shot Keith a funny glance, not that the latter could tell at this distance. "_Dumbledore_... How do _you _know? I thought he disapproved of Wet Carpets." Suddenly the memory of their trial flickered through his mind. "Wait a minute. What do you know that we don't? What-"

"SEND THE BLOODY LETTERS!"  
  
Oyster mumbled something and ducked back into his room, staring around in obvious stupefaction. His hands, almost on their own accord, stacked and hoisted the application forms. Stumbling from the room, Oyster began the long walk down the tower's spiral staircase, passing as-yet empty dorms and the Filthy Minded common room blankly.  
  
"Why the bloody blazes is he coming here?" he whispered to himself as he crossed the second-level floor and began the steep ascent of the West Staircase, still trembling slightly. "We can't train him the way he ought to be trained, we don't have much of a Dark Arts section, and he's potent... he's legendary... why is he coming to a nuthouse?"  
  
Numbly, he crossed the Owlery door and went in.  
  
_I won't believe it until I see it_, he resolved, peering around in the dimness for an obliging owl.  
  
_There is no way Harry Potter will come to Wet Carpets. Why would he? Why on earth would the most famous wizard in history come _here?

_And.. why does Dumbledore want him to?_

* * *

Hogwarts was over. Harry couldn't quite grasp it, or comprehend that he was free. Free of the Dursleys every summer, free of school, free of – of a great Shadow. It was amazing, the sort of bliss that this would have brought him, if the price hadn't been too great.  
  
He was a myth of a wizard now, he saw it in Ron and Hermione's faces every day, in the awed regard of passerby, even in the mirror when he washed up for bed. Trelawny had said it herself, seventeen years ago; "He will have power the Dark Lord knows not." To be welcome in every home... to be loved, and to have loved so dearly that his heart bled with the emptiness... to want to die, rather than dread it, as Voldemort had.  
  
"But neither can live while the other survives."  
  
"Does that mean one of us has to kill the other... in the end?"  
  
A murderer. That was who he really was, under the fame and the weariness. They had come face to face in his seventh year, barely a month ago in fact, as they had for almost every year prior to that; but something changed. The end of school was, in a sense, the end of the war. Voldemort knew it. He had been waiting for it, in fact.  
  
So they had dueled, but with a fury and a desperation unlike anything either of them had encountered. Harry bore the brunt of the tide of blood. At last, near-blinded and an inch from death, he had managed the words.  
  
_For my parents_, he had told himself. _For the Longbottoms, and Cedric dying in some forgotten graveyard. For _– and the tears had got into his open wounds and burned like fire – _for Sirius.  
_  
And Voldemort had blown away like so much dust, leaving Harry in a black dream.  
  
Waking up in St. Mungo's surely must have been worse than hell, as he found himself consumed with a wrenching pain, unable to do anything but stare up at three figures at his bedside. He couldn't focus on them until they had wiped the blood out of his eyes. Hermione was crying hysterically. Ron was white as snow. But Dumbledore... Dumbledore had wept over his broken body, and somehow those tears did more for him than Fawkes's ever had.  
  
He found the will to recover, but not to mend entirely.  
  
And just like that, life at Hogwarts had ended. Harry's flesh healed without trace of the horrific battle he had suffered (though the lightning-bolt scar remained). Now he understood why Moody was such a scarred figure, even if his own Dark Arts wounds had vanished completely along with his enemies. Though Dumbledore would have him believe otherwise.

For the headmaster cautioned him, over and over again, upon his salvation - "you are not yet free from danger, Harry." Harry had shrugged that off; his archnemesis was dead, wasn't he? And he had other things to think about, i.e., going to live at the Burrow. Ron and Hermione insisted on him coming back to the Burrow with them, and to all fronts, he tried to present a normal life.  
  
But the nightmares... the reliving of moments when he had tried to tear out his own eyeballs and the brain beyond to make it end... when he forced out the syllables, through a teeth stained red with vomited blood...  
  
Voldemort would not have been satisfied with a swift death, but Harry found himself incapable of torment as he summoned the strength to raise his wand.  
  
_"Avada Kedavra!"_  
  
And he would wake in a cold sweat.  
  
No more were his dreams of being an Auror. He couldn't live with the guilt of killing, even a Dark Lord, who had caused – and in causing, deserved - every bit of the pain Harry had felt for seventeen years.  
  
So when Hermione came with an application form to some madcap college, he signed, thinking that perhaps he had earned himself a bit of peace.

* * *

Somewhere, Hermione had got up the courage to tell Ron the state of things: that she and Harry were both going overseas for four years, and he ought to come too (She neglected to tell him who had suggested it). To her shock and his credit, he took it surprisingly well.  
  
At first.  
  
"Hermione, there is no way Harry's going to Wet Carpets," Ron said firmly, seating himself on the tattered cushions of the Burrow's sofa. "It's an insane place, and he's still got Auror training to look to."  
  
"So do you," the bookworm retorted, examining her russet scarf as though there was nothing more fascinating than the sleek fabric. She seemed unwilling to look up.  
  
"Yeah, I do!" Ron snapped. "So?"  
  
"Haven't you had... enough... of the Dark Arts?"  
  
There was a moment where Hermione stared at her scarf and Ron stared at her, feeling that there was no right answer to that question.  
  
"Aurors are the elite, Hermione." He folded his arms. "You can't tell me you disapprove of being the best."  
  
"I don't want anyone else to get hurt," she said in a low voice, still fingering the red silk wrapped around her neck. A vision swam before her; of Harry lying motionless, facedown in on the ground, with every inch of his flesh torn and bleeding. Blinking hard against the sudden surge of tears, she looked up at Ron and then back at her scarf, stubbornly brushing away the moisture that clung to her eyelashes.  
  
"Well, yeah! That doesn't mean I'm going to go haring off to some lunatic college!"  
  
"You should, Ron," Hermione said, earnestly, yet still refusing to meet his annoyed gaze.  
  
"Mum can't afford Wet Carpets and Auror training, you know that!"  
  
"As well as you," she replied coolly, lips trembling. "But you can at least ask for a scholarship. Harry's had enough of the Dark Arts for the time being, and if he's coming to college with me to get away from the memory of Voldemort-"  
  
Ron jumped, and then looked away guiltily, scanning the room for Harry. When it was clear they were alone, he leaned forward and hissed, "I would do anything for Harry, you know that. You would too. But it's not a question of friendship-"  
  
"I don't see why!" Hermione was a formidable sight, standing hand on hip, eyes snapping with irritation as she finally looked at him. "He's lost Sirius, his parents, his sanity. The least you can do is be there for him!"  
  
"Why should I throw away my ambition for your fancy?" Ron demanded, incensed. "He hasn't lost all sanity if he runs around signing up for colleges to make you shut up!"

"Dumbledore wants-"

"Dumbledore's pissed off because Harry was the one who got to kill You-Know-Who."  
  
Hermione's eyes widened in horror. Shock thickened the air between them as the redhead absorbed what he had just said. "I didn't mean-"  
  
She hit him, hard enough to send white lights across his vision. Ron gaped at her, both hands staunching the rush of blood from his nose.  
  
"How can you say that when you know Dumbledore's only concern is his welfare!" she hissed. "As is mine!"  
  
"Oh yeah," Ron fired back, burning with rage. She had _hit_ him. She _never_ hit him. "I've seen your – _concern. _Darling Harry this, Darling Harry that. Sitting around coddling him and forcing him into nuthouses! This isn't what he wants, O patron saint of war heroes! You just want him to drag him along somewhere where you can keep an eye on him, don't you? And Dumbledore isn't much better. 'Harry, be careful. Harry, it's time for someone else to try to kill you.' We almost lost him this year. You both just think it's up to you to make sure nothing else happens! And now _you_ want me to give up being an Auror too!"  
  
"What if I do?" cried Hermione, out of patience. Her brown eyes glittered; tears of fury and hurt coursed down her cheeks. "You're my friends, Ron!"  
  
"'Friendship' is complete domination in your book, is it? Funny, this is the first time Hermione the Dictionary has gotten the meaning of a word wrong!"  
  
"That's not fair," whispered the witch. Fresh tears spilled over as she glared at him. "That's not fair, Ron, and you know it. I just want something to happen to bring us three together again. And I don't want someone else to get hurt the way Harry has been."  
  
"Why do you think he wanted to be an Auror at fifteen?" Ron snarled. "Two years ago, why did he decide to do something that would stop _others_ getting hurt?"  
  
"At the cost of his life?!" Ron made a rude noise. "Do you even remember what he looked like when we found him?" Hermione demanded, her voice breaking.  
  
The redhead's eyes slid away from hers.  
  
She lurched forward, cold with rage, hurt, and acid memories that surged with every fresh wave of tears. For a moment fear engulfed her, and some sane part of her wondered in horror if she was going to hit him again, but instead she collapsed against his chest and wept, shaking violently. Ron looked confused and angry for a moment, and then discovered that putting his arms around her made the sobs slow and, eventually, stop.  
  
They sat there in silence.  
  
"I wish you would come," she whispered at last, pressing her face against his cotton shirt.  
  
"I can't," he said bitterly. "I meant it when I said Mum couldn't afford it."  
  
"That wouldn't have stopped you a year ago. Go to Dumbledore." She refrained from saying that Dumbledore, of all people, would offer support. If she told him that, she would also have to say why, and _that _was a secret. At least for now.

He stiffened. "I don't want-"  
  
"Charity?" Unseen, Hermione smiled to have anticipated him, though she felt exasperated. "It's a nice sort of charity that lets you be with your friends and get an education, wouldn't you say?"  
  
Ron was tense for so long that she wondered if he was actually considering it. The arms he had wrapped around her withdrew, defensive. "I'll ask for a scholarship," he said shortly.  
  
She would have to be satisfied with that. "You'll send an owl?"  
  
"First thing tomorrow."  
  
"Now," she insisted. "It's just barely past noon."  
  
"Fine."  
  
Silence dominated for a further few minutes. Hermione was becoming restless. "Right now," she repeated, sitting up and glaring at him.  
  
Ron actually smiled. "As soon as you get off my lap."

Laughing slightly, she moved aside, watching him stand and leave the room. "Where in God's name has that owl of mine got to?" he demanded, vanishing from sight. She heard the screen door swing and slam. "Pig!"

As soon as she was positive he was out of earshot, she reached into her pocket and took out a well-creased letter. Her smile was definitely smug. "Just as you asked, Dumbledore," she whispered, and crumpled it in her fist. "All according to plan."

* * *

Unseen in the room above them, Harry took his ear from the floorboards, feeling sick. The prospect of Ron possibly coming to Wet Carpets with him seemed empty in the face of their fading friendship. If anything, the demise of Voldemort seemed to have prompted troubles closer to home.  
  
He sat down against the wall, knees drawn up against his chest, arms wrapped around his legs. Noon sunlight, streaming through chinks in the wall and the open window across the room, did not dispel his misery.  
  
Hermione came pounding up the stairs. She was flushed with the success of her conversation with Ron, though there was still a hint of sadness and venom about her posture. "Harry?" she called as she cleared the last few steps.  
  
Harry watched her silently. Classic bushy hair and slightly skinny build hadn't changed much over the years, though her taste in style had improved. Clad in white hoodie and blue jeans - nondescript except for the odd silk scarf at her throat - Hermione seemed less of a bookworm than she had at eleven, entering Hogwarts in prim uniform robes. Those who knew her saw the intellectual woman fighting to emerge. A fussy, scrupulous girl had bloomed into one of the dearest friends he had, and he wished for the umpteenth time that their friendship could have remained untainted by Voldemort's dominion.  
  
It was _poison_, the knowledge that he had killed someone. Ron didn't want to come to Wet Carpets with a murderer. If Hermione possessed any sense that didn't come out of books, neither would she.  
  
She saw him there and faltered, one hand still on the handrail. "Did you... hear us?"  
  
A nod seemed insufficient, so he spoke, his voice shockingly raspy and almost sinister. He had hardly talked at all for the past month, choosing as few words as possible whenever speech was not an option. "Yeah, I did."  
  
"Ron's sent Pig out; he's asking for a scholarship!" she said, making a brave stab at being cheerful.  
  
"I know." He looked away.  
  
"Harry..." Concerned, she crossed the floor and seated herself on the floorboards next to him, watching him with obvious pain. "Aren't you glad?"  
  
"He doesn't want to come. You shouldn't have made him." Watching a small beetle crawl along the floor, close to his sneakers, he added, "I suppose I am glad, though."  
  
Hermione watched the beetle too. Harry could sense her struggle to find the right words.  
  
"You'll have a bit of a break there, Harry," she said quietly, putting a hand on his shoulder.  
  
He couldn't think of a response to this. A break from what? From his identity as a murderer? He didn't think even a surgeon could remove the weight of guilt and horror from his stomach, or take away the memories and nightmares that haunted him...  
  
"It'll just be the three of us again. Like it was in our first year."  
  
He snorted lightly. "First year I found out how my parents died, discovered that there was someone out there who wanted to kill me, and almost managed to get myself murdered."  
  
"First year you found a place where you belonged, found people who cared about you, and met your best friends," Hermione said, talking over him. "Stop acting like a dementor's got hold of you, Harry. Good things _have _happened to you."  
  
"Is that what you think I'm doing? Wallowing in self-pity?" Harry demanded angrily. His voice was furious, though he was still watching the progress of the beetle. "Let's sic Voldemort on you for seventeen years, see how you like it..."  
  
"I don't want you to decay like this," Hermione snapped back.  
  
"Fine. I'll come to Canada and study at Wet Carpets. Are you happy?"  
  
"No!" Hermione glared at the beetle. There was a pause, as she tried to bring herself under control again. "I want you to promise me that you'll make an effort to be Harry again this year."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" said Harry, nonplussed. He took his eyes off the insect to stare at her. "I can't stop being myself, really, can I?"  
  
"Yes, you can," his friend retorted after a few moment had gone by, her voice low. "You can go so far into guilt and pain that you stop being a person."

The silence extended for another few minutes as Harry seethed. Hermione finally spoke again. "Where's Hedwig?"

"Going to patronize my owl too, hmm?"

"I was going to send a letter to Dumbledore, but I guess I don't need your assistance to find her, if you're going to be obstinate," Hermione snapped. She got to her feet and walked away, climbing up to the Burrow's third level. Harry heard her calling, somewhat chokily, for Hedwig a few minutes later.  
  
He looked back at the adventurous beetle. It had crossed the floorboards, and was attempting to climb up his motionless foot. With great care – almost with tenderness – he peeled it off, stood, and carried it over to the open window, placing it on the sill. There was a moment when it stood motionless, tasting the whiff of free air. Then its wings unfolded. Harry watched it as it faded to a speck in the noon sky.  
  
When Ron came up the stairs a few minutes later, he found his friend sitting under the window with his head lolled back, sleeping soundly for the first time in a month.

If a nightmare took him later, the redhead did not know of it.

* * *

"Tessa!"  
  
The girl flinched and put her hands up, as though warding a blow. She was aware of a searing pain all over her skin, as though someone had put a Stinging Hex on her.  
  
"Tessa!?" Concern laced the familiar tones. "You okay? Who's Oyster?"  
  
"I... what? What happened?"  
  
"You fell asleep," Snoopy's voice said in her ear. The burning sensation faded and fled as she pushed herself into a sitting position, blinking and breathing hard. "Look, are you sure you're okay? You were like... twitching."  
  
"No, I'm... alright..." Tessa rubbed her prickling arms, disorientated, and sat up to find herself still in her backyard, surrounded by grass instead of the cold flagstones she thought she had felt. "What time is it?"  
  
"Almost one. We should go change into our swimming suits soon if we want to catch Marie's party." Snoopy frowned, still watching her friend with curiosity and slight fear.  
  
"Yeah, okay." Sudden excitement about seeing her old friend again erased all of Tessa's dread, though she continued to rub her arms as they went inside. "And I'm fine, so you can stop looking at me like that."  
  
"You don't look 'fine.' You just fell asleep, out of nowhere," Snoopy insisted. "I was talking to you and all of a sudden you jerked and your eyes were closed. And you said something weird too... you said, 'Oyster.' Who's Oyster?" she repeated.  
  
Tessa bit her lip as patchy memories began to piece together. Her friend's avid staring was starting to annoy her, and she led the way down the hall feeling still feeling the curious eyes on the back of her neck. "Someone was hurting someone," she said shortly.  
  
"An oyster?" Snoopy giggled slightly without breaking her gaze.  
  
"No."  
  
"Well, then-"  
  
"I'll change in the bathroom, you can take the guest bedroom, okay?" Tessa cut in swiftly, snatching up her turquoise swimsuit. "Apparate to the pool locker rooms when you're finished, Snoopy, and wait for me. See you there."  
  
"But-"  
  
Snoopy found herself cut off by the slamming of the bathroom door.  
  
Barricaded within, Tessa sat on the toilet lid and shook, recollections of tearing pain flooding her mind. A Stinging Hex indeed! More like the Cruciatus. But Oyster was the Head of the House of Filthy Minded, she knew that from his signature on her letter, what could he have done to warrant an Unforgivable Curse? Or had he performed it? It didn't seem likely that a school Founder could be involved in such an episode. Then why had she said his name?  
  
And if she hadn't... why had Snoopy said she'd said his name?  
  
Her arms and legs still stung slightly, electric twinges racing up and down her body. She ignored them, still puzzling over the frightening vision, which had gone as quickly as it had come.  
  
Straining her memory gave her even less of an answer. Tasting blood... immeasurable pain... a College Professor... and the Cruciatus? Where was the connection?  
  
Getting up, she went to stand in front of the mirror, reaching for a brush and hair-tie mechanically. A short, slightly porky girl of seventeen looked back at her from the glass, blue-gray eyes still telling stories of bewilderment. Red patterns were starting to crisscross on her arms and legs, though the lingering pain had gone.  
  
A whiplash crack made her jump. Snoopy had already gone.  
  
_I'd better get a move on, then, if I don't want to be late to Marie's Welcome Home party.  
_  
Sighing, Tessa shucked her skirt and spaghetti strap, pulling on in their place an overlapping two-piece swimsuit. It was patterned festively, though the main color was a bright teal; she had got it in Jamaica, when their seventh-year classes had gone for Muggle Mingling in Foreign Places. Smiling fondly at the memory, she reached for her beach towel, and then – on second thought – her wand.  
  
"_Sunebanus_," she murmured, tapping her arms. A pale charm rippled out across her body and disappeared wherever it found bare skin; wizard's sunblock. Satisfied, she hid the slim wood in her Lion King towel, clutched it tightly to her chest, and closed her eyes.  
  
A mighty crack shook the room, and she vanished.  
  
She hated Apparating; it felt as though thousands of little hands were tearing at her skin, blurring the scenery just beyond, giving her a sensation of rushing wind. There was a moment, just before the journey was over, when it felt as though she were splitting in two –  
  
"OUCH!"  
  
The girl stumbled as something extremely solid attempted to occupy the same space as she was for a moment. It failed dismally, though in the split second before they toppled, Tessa was aware of shouting, splashing, and a rush of warm air. Then both witches fell backwards and hit the tiled floor.  
  
"God, Tess, don't Apparate on my head!" Snoopy got to her feet, wincing.  
  
"Sorry," Tessa gasped, sitting up. She only had time for a brief glance for her surroundings – the steamy, flooded aisles of the pool's locker rooms – before her companion hoisted her into a standing position.  
  
"What took you so long?"  
  
"I was..."  
  
"There you two are!" Shea, a former seventh-year classmate, came sprinting over at the side of her best friends. "I just came back in to see if Kayla was still in the bathroom... You're both late, I'll have you know! We said one, remember? It's almost quarter after!"  
  
"The world's going to end," Tessa snapped back, tottering slightly as Snoopy let her go. "Where's Marie?"  
  
"She's outside – come on!"  
  
Shea crossed to the pool entrance and disappeared through it, with Snoopy hard on her heels. Tessa snatched up her towel, checked it hastily to make sure her wand was still concealed within, and followed her friends into the bright sunlight.

* * *

A bit of a patchy chapter, hmm? And eleven pages! I thought I would have time to do the reunion too, but I got too involved with our splintering trio. I love the emotionally crumbling Harry, he's so delightfully sullen.  
  
Ethan, I don't know how much longer this would have taken me if you hadn't bribed me. It's stupid to wish you happy birthday again, but as your somewhat lame birthday present seems to be turning into an epic, you'll have to be satisfied with To Be Continued for now.  
  
I'm so glad that my friends are finally coming into the story a little bit... it's hard to write about yourself in an objective light, however. grimaces  
  
I'm starting to uncover the plot! But I can't talk about that here, can I?  
  
Until chapter three, then!  
  
-Tessa


	4. Chapter Three: Owl Delivery

* * *

Chapter Three: Complete Chaos

* * *

_So take the photographs and still frames in your mind_

_Hang them on a shelf in good health and good time  
  
Tattoos and memories and dead skin on trial  
  
For what it's worth –  
  
It was worth all the while  
  
It's something unpredictable but in the end it's right,  
  
I hope you had the time of your life_  
  
- Greenday, "Good Riddance"

* * *

Silence had fallen over the Wet Carpets grounds. It was absolute, save for the distant squalls of Keith's young griffins as they were fed. A mild heat haze drifted over the tundra's grasses, stirring up seeds and smoky dust, then whipping itself into a breeze as a wisp of cloud obscured the sunlight. It rustled down across the lawn, accelerating as it went.  
  
The first of the owls dropped like a brick.  
  
His tawny wings unfolded as he caught the draft of the breeze; it carried him up, into the gray sky, into the northern sunlight. Spotty pinion feathers fanned out with remarkable ease. Silently, he turned his wingspan on a slant, arching up into the clouds and dwindling from sight.  
  
From the tower of the Owlery, another bird was tossed out ungracefully, plummeting towards the ground until he too managed to get his wings open. Hooting, in some indignation, he followed the ascent of the first.  
  
Two more owls followed; then five; then ten, fifteen, twenty-odd birds were up in the sky, heading in different directions, drifting apart, until it was less of a mass migration and more of a disorientated flock.  
  
Oyster stood at the tower window, folding his arms as he watched the owls disperse. He had sent off a round before – the six people who had applied before the Ministry hearing had all already received their letters (Tessa was among them). A self-satisfied smile flickered around his lips for an instant – his dull task of sending off acceptance letters was complete – before he turned. Something moved and vanished at the corner of his eye. His brow creased, and he held his post at the window a moment longer, squinting against the afternoon light.  
  
One tiny, lopsided owl darted towards the castle.  
  
Not away.  
  
Towards.  
  
With roughly the speed of a small cannon.  
  
"What the devil...?"  
  
Pigwidgeon zoomed happily in trough the window and crashed into Oyster's midriff, who stumbled and grabbed at the feathery bomb before he toppled.  
  
"Stupid owls!" he gasped, with the last breath of air in his lungs before he hit the floor. A sharp beak nipped at his clenched fingers in the same instant, suggesting that he let go of it. Something about the abrupt pain reminded him of Janet's biting alarm clock; his eyes narrowed at the memory and he snatched at the owl much harder than he should have, causing it to squeak and dig a bloody furrow in his thumb.  
  
The handwriting on the envelope was not Janet's, however. Sitting up in the owl droppings, he tore it open. No, Janet had a practiced, full hand with a quill, though she preferred to write with a ballpoint pen, saying that Muggles were a step ahead of wizards in that sense. This person had written in a spidery black ink, and a few words were smeared, indicating that it was not quite dry. The antagonist owl had not been a colleagues' practical joke, then.  
  
The letter was brief and to the point.  
  
"'Dear Heads of Wet Carpets,'" Oyster read aloud. "'I wish to attend your college in the fall with my best friends, Hermione Granger (a former Hogwarts Head Girl), and Harry Potter, whom you must know already. However, I have little money for tutoring, and less still for the staggered funds that a college student must pay. I hope that you have not given out your full scholarship yet, as it would help me considerably. Hermione convinced me to apply, and I really want to attend. Yours sincerely, Ronald Bilius Weasley. P.S.: I hope Pig delivers it promptly, he tends to get overexcited.'"  
  
Climbing to his feet, slightly unsteadily, he reread the letter. Ronald Weasley... gracious God, wasn't that the son of Arthur Weasley? Yes, the one who had been involved with that Ministry scandal two years back, when Voldemort had returned.  
  
"Pity," he said, staring down at the scrawling handwriting. Such a student would play the advantage for Wet Carpets... but they had already given away their full scholarship.  
  
That wouldn't matter, if he acted fast.  
  
Fetching two spare parchments and a school-supply list, Oyster wrote yet another acceptance letter (and the last, he swore to himself as he scribbled). He was writing so fast that he spotted the tattered paper with pink ink several times, but he hardly noticed it, being caught up in his own racing thoughts.  
  
If Miss Granger had been the one to suggest it...  
  
He scrawled his name in a big looping O and an illegible scribble following it, ending with a bright neon flourish.  
  
When Pig ("Pig?") was hurled out of the Owlery window a few moments later, he plummeted almost all the way to the ground before managing to catch an updraft. He bore two letters; one was a standard reply to Ron's application.  
  
The other was addressed to Hermione, suggesting that she relinquish her full Head Girl's scholarship to a certain Mr. Weasley if she wanted him to attend.  
  
Oyster stayed at the window for another minute, watching the patterns of the clouds, and the Wet Carpets owls fly out of view. They seemed a little bemused by the bright sunlight, as they usually delivered their letters at night, for safety precautions -

Horror suddenly crossed his face.

"Oh, shit."

* * *

This is the thing about acceptance letters, in the magical world:  
  
Most of the time, you receive them around July, when it is most convenient for the school's teachers.  
  
And, most of the time, the school's teachers don't stop to wonder if July is the most convenient time for_ you_.  
  
Five of the owls veered away from the general flock, heading south- southwest, into the United States. They were moving with a definite purpose to their flight. Enhanced by magic, their velocity allowed them to surpass several planes, to the surprise and shock of their pilots; but the owls took no notice of them. In fact, they sped up, moving trough the atmosphere with roughly the speed of a flock of small feathered grenades.  
  
They had a task to do, and until they arrived in Denver, CO, two hours later, nothing and nobody would divert them.

* * *

"All right, gang – smile!"  
  
Kate bared her teeth at Tessa's camera. God, she hated pictures. Only Marie's firm grip around her shoulders kept her in front of the lens - otherwise, she would be running right about now. Not one of her friends could have kept her there without force. It was sad but true: the power of friendship dwindled in the face of Kodak's utter evilness. Even Frodo and Sam couldn't have managed it.  
  
There was a blinding flash of light, and Kate ducked out from Marie's arm to scrub at her eyes. "Pain... pain pain pain..."  
  
Tessa came over and looped her arm around her waist, grinning. "Kate, it's only a picture. Someone would think I'd torn your eyes out. Say cheese!" She pulled the other girl close and brought her camera up in the same moment, leaving Kate with more red spots across her vision.  
  
"It feels about the same to my retinas," she hissed back, blinking to dispel the white light.  
  
"What? It's Marie's day. We have to document."  
  
Kate sighed, exasperated with the world at large, but couldn't think of a retort fast enough. Tessa had already wandered away. Mentally adding the camera to her list of Things To Burn (along with Marie's Scottish teddy bear), Kate turned and looked up at the pool slide, considering. It was an impressive slide, really.  
  
She hadn't paid for a stamp, which would allow her to rent a slide inner tube... but that had never stopped their group before.  
  
And it was such a hot day.  
  
Someone came up behind her and draped an arm around her shoulders. Kate blinked, disorientated for a moment. "Let's go on up, shall we?" The girl sighed, recognizing Shea's voice and height, and turned to face her.  
  
"I have no stamp," she said ruefully.  
  
"So? Marie and Ginny" (unlike her friends, Shea insisted on calling Snoopy by her real name) "don't have stamps either, and they went up right after the photo. It's not like the guard ever checks." She suddenly shut up and eyed Kate dubiously for a moment. "Since when do you worry about the stamps?"  
  
"If I agree to come, will you quit bugging me?"  
  
"Oooh, someone's cranky." There was another pause as Shea evaluated her friend's expression. "It's Kodak, isn't it." It wasn't a question; they knew each other too well. The taller girl sighed. "The Satan of the overworld."  
  
"Don't remind me," Kate grumbled. She scrubbed at her watering eyes again. "Tessa and that stupid camera."  
  
"I don't even know where she got it. When I saw her in the locker rooms she only had her towel with her." Shea spotted two inner tubes lying abandoned by the slide's stair and passed one to Kate.   
  
"Hey. It's Tessa. She manages to find the most unlikely stuff in her room alone – remember that purple bath duck? Stands to reason she could find a camera at a pool. Do you know, I think she actually likes taking those pictures."  
  
"I can't understand her. The only thing more evil than cameras is artificial sugar."  
  
"Let's burn them all."  
  
Shea flashed her a supportive grin. "Don't forget Scotty the Scottish Bear." ((A/N: Don't ask.))  
  
"Marie took him to Denmark with her, didn't she? Maybe she forgot it." Kate lifted her eyes in silent prayer.  
  
"Fat chance." Shea sighed again. "She worships that teddy bear."  
  
"We'll torch it someday, I promise."  
  
"We'll feed it to her owl."  
  
They had begun the slow walk up the slide's metal staircase. It was a magnificent slide, for a public pool; it had been built before the safety regulations had come into place, so the diving boards were still intact and the slide was two or three stories tall, with bends and spirals that curved so sharply you almost went over the edge. Kate looked up, and at the summit of the stair, she saw a flash of red: Marie's ginger hair.  
  
Shea had noticed it too, and both girls picked up their pace, stepping from puddle to puddle. "Speaking of owls, have you got your letter yet?" Shea said in an undertone, as a crowd of boys moved past them.  
  
"No." Kate sighed. "Me mum thinks it should come in the next week."  
  
"Well, duh... July's almost over... if it doesn't come soon, I'll send another owl, just to make sure the post is still working." Sarcasm tinted the other's voice. "I heard about their hearing, you know... a total botch... Dumbledore swayed it for them. Five to four, but he just had to vote for them..."  
  
"I'm not complaining," Kate said sharply. "They're his students, Shea."  
  
"They're only four years older than we are," Shea protested. A scowl crossed her face. "If you ask me, they're too young to be good teachers."  
  
For the second time in as many minutes, Kate found herself struggling for the right words to reply. Shea was only grouchy because the acceptance letters hadn't come yet; everyone was, save for Tessa, because in a stroke of genius that played the lie to her procrastinator self, she had applied directly after graduation.  
  
Kate gave up after a moment. There was no good reply to Shea in one of her moods. Blessedly, she was spared further dialogue by a slender, freckled hand reaching out to grip her wrist.  
  
"Hi guys!" Marie said cheerfully, helping them up the last few stairs. Kate fidgeted with her swimsuit strap even as she grinned in response. "We saw you and decided to wait."  
  
"You decided to wait, you mean," Snoopy commented behind her.  
  
"We were just talking about Troy," Marie continued, shooting an evil look over her shoulder. "I know it's a Muggle movie, but it's disgraceful that you lot haven't gone yet. Does it only play in Denmark, or something?"  
  
"Orlando Bloom is Paris, that's why," Snoopy said coldly. "It's difficult to watch someone who's bi getting with the ladies, yanno?"  
  
"He is not bisexual." Shea glowered. "I refuse to believe it." 

"I heard he converted about four months ago," Kate put in.  
  
"It's because Kole sent him so much fan mail, I bet," Snoopy whispered, and they all broke into sniggers. Kole was legendary in Denver. The slightly queer wizard had Frenched a picture of Orlando Bloom, straight out of a magazine, before an audience of thoroughly amused classmates; nobody had figured his orientation out yet, but they had a suspicion he was gay. It must have been the magazine.  
  
_Princes and pirates and elves, oh my!_  
  
"Besides, we're seventeen," Shea went on. "One more year and I'll have the tickets for us. It's just that you turned eighteen before we did."  
  
Marie flashed them a smug grin and chose to say nothing.  
  
"I think Tessa's seen it," Kate added. "We were going to sneak in sometime and stay for a few hours, but I don't know if she ever went through with it." Her fingers curled on the stair rail as she looked up into the sunlight.  
  
"That's what we were going to do!" Snoopy hissed. "That traitor!"  
  
"Did she say she'd sneak in a vat of popcorn and throw it at Sean Bean when he came onscreen?"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"I know for a fact she hasn't done that yet," Marie intervened. "She swore to wait until I got back from Denmark."  
  
"Maybe all four of us can go sometime, then," Kate suggested.  
  
"Well I feel loved." Shea commented. She stuck out her tongue and, spontaneously, tripped on the last stair.  
  
Snoopy saw it a second before it happened and backed away.  
  
They were on narrow steps. There was nowhere to run.  
  
Shea squealed as she slammed into Kate's stomach and fell backward, rolling, miraculously missing the painfully solid stair rails. Marie had the sense to let go of her hand before she was dragged down too, and she lunged for the edge of the step in horror, shouting something at the top of her lungs. But the collision was over in a split second. Somebody's inner tube went flying over the rail.  
  
Snoopy bounced on her feet in terror as the two came to a halt. Shea was laughing insanely, legs flailing, as she tried to get to her feet and let Kate breathe.  
  
"Omigod!" Marie danced in a circle, eyes wide and unblinking. Her hands fluttered like terrified wounded doves. "Are you okay!?"  
  
"Fine," Kate said, or tried to say, but failed due to the lack of air in her lungs. Someone had taken her inner tube. There was something pointy under her... She lay flat on her back, attempting to breathe, staring up at the sky.  
  
There was a flicker darting in and out of the clouds... Her eyes watered madly and when she blinked, the shapes had gone.  
  
Something sharp was pressing into her arm.  
  
Was that a feather?  
  
She gasped and tried to sit up. Three supporting hands steadied her before Shea's voice cut into the shocked silence. "Ohmigod, Kate, I'm so sorry!" Someone was tugging her to her feet, apologetic, mortified.  
  
Kate considered throwing her down the slide. She wavered, unsteady on her feet, and breathed hard for a couple of moments, trying to get her air back. "I'm fine," she replied after a moment, but nobody seemed to hear her. Shea was still talking.  
  
"It's Ginny's fault, she willed me to fall..."  
  
"I totally did," Snoopy agreed, cynical as always, and rolled her eyes once Shea's back was turned. Kate saw her suddenly stiffen.  
  
"Snoopy?"  
  
The girl had done a perfect double take. Her eyes had flicked upwards, then she went rigid and tilted her full head up to peer at the heavens. "Snoooopy?" Kate repeated, a little louder this time. Her breathing had steadied.  
  
"Ginny?" Shea followed Kate's gaze and then blinked to see her friend staring fixedly at the sky. "Are you... okay?"  
  
Snoopy's brows snapped together at the interruption, but she didn't say anything for another long moment. "Huh," she said finally, and broke her intense scrutiny. "That's weird."  
  
"What's weird?" Kate was feeling edgy. It was the scare she had had, she decided after a moment. Backflipping down a slide staircase would psych anyone out. Or maybe PMS, since Shea was being kind of grouchy too. Or the weather: that sky was darkening rapidly, and Snoopy had wondered earlier if it would rain that evening. Her eyes flicked up to the wisps of cloud, judging the thunderheads –  
  
She inhaled sharply, and almost tripped again.  
  
"Did you see them too?" Snoopy lifted a quizzical eyebrow at her.  
  
"It's daylight," Kate said after a moment. She sounded shocked even to herself. "Why would anyone send them out in daylight?"  
  
"Send what?" Snoopy demanded. "I didn't get a good look at them-"  
  
There was a barely-concealed urgency in her voice. Marie and Shea, who were clueless as to what was going on, caught the slight paranoia in her tone and were holding a whispered conversation at the top of the stairs.  
  
Kate, staring upward, ignored them. "I don't know what I saw either – not exactly," she replied, talking to Snoopy without taking her eyes away from the sky. "It was weird. There were four or five of them, darting around – I don't know," she repeated, and finally looked back at her friends. "They looked almost like owls, but who sends owls out at this time of day? It's full daylight."  
  
"Spooky," Marie commented. "Maybe they're errant Death Eaters playing Quidditch."  
  
Her comment broke the tension. Shea collapsed against her inner tube, chuckling so hard that she almost knocked herself back down the stairs. The pool guard at the top of the slide was giving them odd looks by now.  
  
"Are you going to slide or not?" he demanded.  
  
"I'll go," Marie said instantly. "I think you guys are trying to mess with my head." She pressed past them. Kate scowled at her.  
  
"We're not lying," Snoopy protested. "There's seriously something up there. I rolled my eyes because Shea was being stupid-"  
  
"Ginny!" Shea glared at her. "Be nice."  
  
"-and there was a thing flying around. Or something," Snoopy finished lamely. "I dunno."  
  
The five of them – the four girls, and the pool guard – all briefly craned their necks, scanning the sky.  
  
"Nah," Marie said eventually, and climbed into the slide, holding her inner tube like a massive doughnut around her waist. She continued to talk as she set it down and tried to get comfortable on top of it, a process which involved much wriggling, twisting, and flopping around. "I'm glad to see you all again, but you really don't have to make up a bunch of bull to keep me interested in the conversation. You're my sisters, practically; you don't have to s-" but she was cut off by the pool guard, who had given her tube a hearty nudge with his foot.  
  
Kate glanced upward again, suddenly uncertain. Maybe she'd just imagined it. She was gullible, she did that all the time – or perhaps it was mass hallucination, or something along those lines – how would she know? She wasn't a psychiatrist. And she certainly didn't want to alienate Marie on her first day back by talking about a bunch of (of what?) things in the sky. If the redhead thought she was lying, maybe she should just let it go. It was Snoopy's fault really, going on about a "thing" she thought she'd seen "flying around" –  
  
And then a thing dove out of the sky. A lot of things.  
  
Kate screamed. A massive horned owl was plunging down out of the sky, straight for them. He was flanked by two tawny owls, a snowy owl, and a burrowing owl that veered away from the slide, heading out towards the diving boards. Snoopy almost looked pleased for a minute – "I told you so!" – before she realized that the snowy owl was going straight for her face, and leapt for the stairs.  
  
The pool guard said something that Kate had never heard before, though it didn't sound very pleasant, and flung himself down the slide. One of the birds shot after him and perched on the very lip of the slide's end, extending a leg (was that a letter?) to someone that the girls couldn't see, though Kate assumed it was the guard.  
  
But Marie had gone down first. She crashed into the water, clinging to her inner tube and screaming as the huge great horned owl besieged her, flying at her face, her unprotected arms and legs, trying to get her to take the parchment from its leg. The pool guard came out almost on top of her.  
  
Shea had actually kept her wits. One of the tawny owls had landed on the stair rail next to her, and she took the letter with visible apprehension – the minute she saw the seal, however, she leaned over the railing and started shouting at everyone (mainly Marie, who was still screaming, and Snoopy, who was halfway down the stairs).  
  
"It's our letters! Stop, you guys, don't freak out, it's our letters! _Ginny!_ It's our letters!"  
  
"It's our letters? Then why the hell didn't they wait till dark!?" Snoopy bellowed back, stopping mid-leap and turning to face the swarm of owls. "Wet Carpets is insane! This place is full of Muggles!"  
  
Her statement was only too true. The other families at the pool were shrieking and running pell-mell towards the locker rooms, or else standing agape as the birds swooped and dove towards the Wet Carpets students. Five owls, in daytime? The animals had gone mad!  
  
Bewildered, Kate took a letter from the nearest tawny owl and ripped it open. "'Dear Kate, newly graduated resident of Denver; We are pleased to inform you that-' omigod, it is our letters! Shea, what the _hell _were they thinking? It's the middle of the afternoon!"  
  
Shea shrugged. "It's Marie's welcome home party, isn't it? We're all here together. Maybe they picked the most convenient time for the owls."  
  
"Convenient? They'll all be arrested! There's five owls flying around a Muggle pool! And it's full daylight!"  
  
Below them, Marie took her letter (with fingers that still trembled) from the affronted owl. She examined the seal, then slit the flap cautiously, in case something else came diving at her head – but there was nothing. Nothing but two sheets of paper.  
  
"'Your application has been registered and accepted at Wet Carpets-'"  
  
Shea tore hers open and read the bright pink handwriting softly to herself. "'Term starts on the Second of September-'"  
  
"'-as the first will be occupied with travel, arrival, and the beginning- of-year-feast,'" Snoopy continued from the stairs.  
  
At the diving boards, where Tessa soothing the burrowing owl, Kayla flipped open the last letter. Her eyes caught on a spot halfway down the parchment. "'-during which you will be Sorted,'" she read aloud, and looked up, thrilled. Her friend grinned broadly.  
  
"Did we all get in?" Kayla bellowed in the direction of the slide.  
  
In answer, Shea leaned over the railing, waving her letter wildly.  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"Oh, good," Tessa sighed, and began making her way towards the pool lobby. "That's a relief."  
  
"Where are you going?" Kayla demanded, still tightly clutching her acceptance letter.  
  
"It's full daylight," her companion called back, "and there's five owls flying around the Denver pool. Where do you think I'm going?"

* * *

Ellis, the woman at the pool desk, was having a rough day. First, at about one, there had been six unnerving _cracks_ from the girl's locker rooms; each time she had gone in and nothing was there. Now there were six teenagers wandering around the pool celebrating a Welcome Back party, or some such nonsense, and she couldn't remember stamping them. Now five owls – five OWLS, of all things! – were zooming around, and two lifeguards had resigned, and eleven terrified people were at her desk demanding their money back, because how were they going to swim, or have a relaxing afternoon, with all these cracking noises and loud obnoxious girls and owls flying around freaking people out? Did the police know about this yet? Did the pool insurance cover owls?  
  
A stocky brunette, wearing an outlandish Jamaican swimming suit, pushed her way to the front of the boisterous line. Ellis glared at her. "Can I help you?"  
  
"Yeah. I need to use a phone, d'you have one?"  
  
Ellis pointed at the telephone attached to the wall behind her. It was a pay phone, and the girl had no change, but she came around the desk anyway and reached for the receiver. The woman stopped her. "You have to put in quarters or something. You can't just call."  
  
The girl smiled a secret smile. "This is a very special phone call."  
  
"Oh, no," Ellis groaned and slumped against her desk. "You're calling the police."  
  
"Nah," the girl said after a moment. "I'm not." And that funny twisted smile flickered across her lips again.  
  
The other looked at her for a long moment, and suspicion abruptly gleamed in her brown eyes. "I didn't stamp you, did I?"  
  
The girl fumbled for a reply, but the line of distraught swimmers in front of Ellis's desk surged forward again, distracting her with threats to sue and claims for refunds. The clerk sat back in her chair and buried her face in her hands, trying to shut out the noise. Just fifteen more minutes, and she would have been off her shift.  
  
She lifted her head and looked around the lobby, searching for a haven, for one person who wasn't adding to her migraine. Usually the desk shift was calm and restful. Now...  
  
Complete chaos.  
  
Fucking owls.

* * *

Tessa breathed a quiet sigh of relief and plucked the phone from its cradle. "Two four two six four," she murmured as she dialed, and the receiver's buzzing suddenly stopped.  
  
"Ministry?" a voice asked in her ear.  
  
"Ministry of Magic," Tessa affirmed. "Denver, Colorado, US – major Muggle disaster. A quintet of owls delivered our college acceptance letters in broad daylight, and we need an Oblivion team." She watched a terrified family run for the parking lot. "And we need it ASAP, 'cos some of the Muggles are freaking out and leaving," she added.  
  
"This wouldn't be Wet Carpets, this college, would it?" the voice demanded suspiciously.  
  
"Uh, yeah..."  
  
"God_damn_it! I keep _telling_ the Minister, we can't keep giving them leases, their first year was a disaster! Fifty-seven Muggles saw that damn Quidditch game, not to mention the _owl_ deliveries... it's Ireland all over again..."  
  
"Sir?" Tessa asked tentatively. "Can you send an Oblivion team?"  
  
"What? Oh, yes, we'll be there in fourteen seconds."  
  
"Fourteen?" Tessa muffled a snicker. "So punctual."  
  
But the voice was muttering to itself again, and the other line went dead.  
  
Tessa set the receiver back in its cradle, looking smug, and cast an evaluating eye over the insanity in the pool lobby. Two young girls were having hysterics in the corner; Muggle men were shouting and threatening each other alternately; a terrified four-year-old was screaming about big scary birds, while his mother ranted about insurance.  
  
Complete chaos. 

She sighed to herself, utterly content.

What a perfect day.

* * *

Meep. Shorter chapter. Ethan, sorries this one took so long. 

Readers, review while you're here, it takes five seconds and it makes my day   
  
And now I will go and take a nap, being completely exhausted and somewhat disgusted with the lessened quality of this chapter, despite me editing it eight times.

Princes and pirates and elves, oh my! Hooray for the oddities of Kole!  
  
-T


	5. Chapter Four: The Secrets We Hide

Chapter Four: The Secrets We Hide

* * *

_Wake me up inside_

_Wake me up inside _

_Call my name and sing me from the dark_

_Bid my blood to rise_

_Before I come undone_

_Save me from the nothing I've become_

Evanescence, "Bring Me To Life"

* * *

_Canada woodland. Stifling. A person can hardly breathe without feeling the forest pressing in on all sides. Not melancholy; not malevolent, either. Just watchful. Though the scenery is mainly coniferous, there are still flashes of slick yellow aspen leaves between the needles, and trees just beginning to change their hues for the festive autumn. It sounds like a relaxing place to be, doesn't it? But a spectator couldn't enjoy the natural beauty of this forest. No natural animals live here, not one (though Keith thinks there may be a few thestrals. Keith of all people would know). _

_But there is no typical Canadian birdsong, no arctic wolves howling, not even the shrill hum of insects here. _

_Silence. _

_There is too much intelligence in the trees. They're old. Far older than the upstart college constructed on their borders. But they have no malice for the invasion – they are content, for the time being, to wait. And perhaps listen._

_Surprisingly enough, today there is something to listen to. Words muffled by the sheer intensity of the trees, but still audible. Voices. They ripple through the forest, disturbing the customary silence with their harshness. A distant argument seems to be in full throttle. It sounds somewhat one-sided._

"_If you had a seed of intelligence in your head-"_

_The trees, sown as thickly as blades of grass, whisper to each other briefly and then subside, returning to their usual somber silence. Light breezes whisper through the grass, stirring up dust-motes from a beaten dirt path, winding over roots and rotting stumps, tainted with the musty shadow of decay. Time has traveled here. So have others, and there are fresh footprints to prove it. Several pairs._

"_Look, I just wanted to-"_

"_Owls, Oyster. Owls!"_

_Muttering and cackling with glee, the breezes travel deeper into the woodland, following the winding path until every flicker of deciduous leaf has vanished and the only thing in sight for miles is watchful pine. The silence is thick enough to be cut. Except – and the voices begin again –_

"_The Daily Prophet always exaggerates. You're making too much of this."_

_The masculine voice seems to be seeping from a glinting pane of glass. Shocked, the breezes sneak closer to investigate. It IS a window – it's set in the wall of an old, tattered shack, seemingly abandoned; it looks like a clubhouse built by boys that now have great-great-grandchildren; as if it would crumble into powder at the slightest touch. Yet a youthful and vigorous battle is definitely raging within._

"_I can't believe you could be so stupid."_

_The words are soft and disgusted, yet they fall like heavy stones into the quiet of the forest. Potent loathing is wrapped into those ten syllables. Fearful, the breezes creep up to the window – the glass is broken in three places - and listen. The trees listen too._

_Silence falls again._

_The breezes peep over the sill. _

_This shack is not a clubhouse after all. It's a staffroom._

* * *

"I mean, I just can't believe it," Janet moaned again, smacking the table with the Daily Prophet as if to punctuate her disgust. "Even for you, Oyster, this is a new level of idiocy." 

Oyster was tempted to make a reference to an incident in their sixth year, when Janet had blown up Snape's spare nickel cauldron and lost Ravenclaw two hundred points, but the steely glint in her eyes made him backpedal hurriedly. "I'm sorry."

"You should be!" the blonde snarled, striking the oak surface again with the article. "What did you expect? That sending off thirty owls at two in the afternoon would win you the Muggle lottery?" She slammed the paper down again, unable to articulate her exasperation, and stared wildly around the staffroom. Looking for something sharp, Oyster guessed.

"I'm sorry."

"If brains were bread, you'd have starved to death before you were born." Smack.

"I'm sorry."

"_Nil habet infelix paupertas durius in se quam quod ridiculos homines facit_," Panda said scathingly from her position in Keith's lap.

"'Poverty, bitter though it be, has no sharper pang than this, that it makes men ridiculous,'" Keith translated obligingly. Oyster turned around in his chair so he could glare at them.

"You know, you were the one who told me to-"

"Silence!" the blonde snarled.

Her victim snapped to attention. "Sorry."

"You- you sniveling, pathetic, useless, brainless imbecile!"

"I'm sorry," Oyster replied, wondering where this was going.

Janet cracked the newspaper across his knuckles. "Thirty-three Muggles were at that pool in Denver," she hissed at him. "Eight at the library in Dublin. Twenty in that four-star Britain restaurant. And I don't even want to think about how many people in New Zealand saw an owl for the first time in their lives. God, they don't even have owls there, Oyster!" Her voice was low and dangerous; she was almost nose to nose with Oyster. "Owls are NIGHT CREATURES!"

Keith toted up the numbers. "That's over sixty Muggles," he said, almost in awe. "That's more than the ones who saw that Ireland Quidditch match, when we accidentally removed the Unplottable wards."

Oyster tried to find something defensive to say, something clever and witty and clipped. "I'm sorry."

His peer unrolled the Daily Prophet. A black-and-white picture of Tom looking very harassed filled one corner, just below the condemning headline:

COLLEGE BLOWS COVER

And below it:

MORE MUGGLE OWL SIGHTINGS SINCE YOU-KNOW-WHO'S FIRST DISAPPEARANCE

"Christ," said Oyster, impressed in spite of himself.

"_Si foret in terries, rideret Christ_," Panda snapped.

"Or cry," commented Keith, taking the Prophet from his friend and scanning it with wonder. "'Seventy-three Muggles were mindwiped yesterday' jeez, Oyster! That's a record, I bet."

"What do you mean, 'or cry'? What did she say?" the redhead demanded suspiciously, but Janet was talking over him again.

"The Ministry ought to take away our lease, that's generally the acceptable punishment." A frown crossed her face. "In fact, I can't imagine why we haven't had word from them yet. All those Obliviate teams sent out for _acceptance letters_, no less-"

"I'm sorry."

"Wait," Keith said, sitting upright so abruptly that Panda, curled in his lap, almost lost her balance. "Wait. We've had no word from the Ministry yet? About our mistake, I mean."

"Not a whisper."

"Do you think Dumbledore did something?"

Both of the others stared at Keith, who suddenly looked duly embarrassed. "Why on earth would Dumbledore interfere?"

The Care of Dangerous Magical Creatures professor coughed slightly and looked away. "Well, he intervened before, didn't he? At our trial, I mean. And he does kind of owe us."

"For what?" Janet demanded.

Keith was getting more and more uncomfortable, Oyster could tell. "It's nothing." He sensed their curiosity and waved a hand in the air, an angry dismissal. "Look, just forget it, okay, Janet?"

She sighed in frustration and sat down across the table, propping her elbows on it and massaging her temples. The redhead shot a nervous glance over his shoulder at Keith, whose embarrassment seemed to have faded. Now he looked concerned. Feeling Oyster's gaze upon him, he mouthed, "How many aspirin has she had?"

"Four," Janet snarled without looking up. The redhead snapped to attention as she exhaled, a long, annoyed, exasperated sigh. "What a marvelous start to our school year. Thanks to our Head of the House of the Filthy Minded, we've sufficiently ruined our prospects."

"Stop being melodramatic, Janet," Keith snapped back, finally getting fed up with the prolonged argument. "If I recall correctly, you have spurred certain incidents along these lines."

"Not as catastrophic as this!"

"Nearly," the other replied, and rustled the Daily Prophet dismissively.

But Janet Starlight couldn't ignore such an insolent accusation. Her silver eyes flamed in challenge. "Name one incident."

"Fourth year." Oyster's eyes lit up in recognition. "When you tried to blow up Mrs. Norris. Those... whatchacallims... Filibuster's Fireworks on the extension cord... and you tied them to her tail and strung her up in the girls' bathroom with a sign on the fuse saying 'Light M'-"

"Not that," Keith cut in. "It was in Potions. The one with the Dr. Pepper-"

"Ah," Oyster said appreciatively, beginning to get into the spirit of the thing as more memories came flooding back. "When you mixed up the bottles of Runespoor saliva and-"

"You've made your point," Janet said, irritated, fishing out another aspirin. "But I've never done anything to jeopardize our career like this!"

"Ah," Keith began.

"Ehm..." the redhead remarked.

Janet stood up, crimson with anger. "You can say whatever you like about me," she flashed, incensed by their smirks, "but our students are going to think we're absolutely nuts because of you!"

Oyster raised a timid hand. "Professor?"

"Now what?"

The response "We kind of are" died on his lips at the murderous look in her eyes, and he settled for fixing his gaze on the table. For the first time he realized how old it looked. There was a dark ring where one of them had left a coffee cup too long, and there were four long, jagged furrows in the grained surface. Clawlike. A shiver touched his spine, and he was abruptly swamped with contrition. The last thing they needed at Wet Carpets was an investigation. Keith would go ballistic. So would Dumbledore... though he didn't know why. Dammit, what _was_ going on? "I'm sorry. Really, I am."

She shot him a final glare and stepped out into the woodland.

And, as might be expected, silence fell again. Oyster slumped back in his chair and sighed. He could hear Janet tramping away through the forest, her steps loud and disgruntled. Eventually those too faded.

The trees were deadly quiet. Not even Panda said a word.

"You know," the redhead said eventually, turning in his chair to glare at his peer, "you were the one who told me to send the letters."

"You think I was going to tell her that?" Keith demanded.

Oyster started to laugh.

* * *

"Now do you believe me, Hermione?" 

The witch blinked sleepy brown eyes at the newspaper shoved under her nose. The words "Daily Prophet" blurred and then solidified.

"It's the morning post, Ron."

"Hermione," the redhead said warningly, taking a seat next to her at the Burrow's dining table.

"Don't worry, Ron, I b'lieve you," she yawned, and pushed her bushy hair out of her face. The motion resolved itself in a luxurious, catlike stretch. "What am I believing?" she added as an afterthought.

"Read it!"

Her posture straightened at the sheer disgust in his voice, though she couldn't suppress a sigh. "Can't this wait until after breakfast? My toast just came up," and she gestured to Mr. Weasley's experimental toaster, which (although it did not run on electricity) had the same annoying tendency as its peers to color all bread placed within a most depressing black. Hermione's piece was no exception, and she eyed it, resigned to the inevitable.

Ron dropped the paper in her lap.

COLLEGE BLOWS COVER

Her brown eyes, still fogged with sleep, suddenly cleared with shock.

"'Wet Carpets, a school still on its knees to the Ministry for loans, proved yesterday that maybe it was not yet ready to stand on its own,'" Hermione read aloud, glancing briefly at the condemning headline. "'Muggles all over the world witnessed the delivery of its ill-timed acceptance letters. Many of its new students were shocked: "Since when has safety been traded for speed?" asked Hannah Abbot, a fresh graduate from Hogwarts. Abbot was not the only one to be critical; witches and wizards all over the country were appalled at the sheer size of the blunder'-"

"They're insane! They're bloody insane!" The redhead seemed almost volcanic in his explosion of rage. "They think they can run a school but they can't even send off letters without making a mess!"

"Oh, Ron," Hermione began placidly, casting one last look at the picture of the American minister before she set the paper aside and began to butter her toast. "It's not that bad."

"How can you be so calm about this?" Ron demanded. "You, Hermione, reading about how our entire civilization was endangered by your own college, and not flipping?"

"It's our college now, Ron, and I recall a certain incident in our second year involving a flying car-"

"Seven Muggles saw us then. Seventy-three saw these owls."

Hermione's knife slipped on the charred toast. "Seventy-three?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's a drastic figure, but-"

"But what? You're as prim as they come, and you're just dismissing this?"

Hermione bit the corner off her toast, allowed herself the leisure of chewing slowly, and swallowed only when the tips of Ron's ears started to turn purple. "I am."

He slammed his fist into the table, and Mrs. Weasley's precious marmalade spilled, globules of yellow jelly spattering the Daily Prophet. "Why are you so damn sure of yourself? Why is going to Wet Carpets such a good idea?"

Chew, chew. Swallow. "This toast tastes as though it has been fossilized. Even with butter. It's amazing how your father can ruin the most simple of appliances-"

"Granger, you are the most annoying woman-"

"But I thought that was me."

Both heads swiveled around. Ginny, standing on the threshold of the Burrow's kitchen, gave them a tiny wave and a smirk. Averting her eyes from the bare legs and baggy Save The Whales T-shirt, Hermione found herself half-amused by the casual dressing – though even in baggy clothes, it was apparent that the sixteen-year-old Weasley, in her bloom of life, had filled out more than she had herself. As vexing as that was, Hermione found it more irksome that Ginny had been listening to their conversation. She set her toast down and glared at it. That was the singular problem with the Burrow – there were no secrets.

Ron seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "How long have you been standing there?" he demanded.

"Long enough." She flashed them another pert smile and went to the fridge. "We're out of eggs, aren't we?"

"I believe so," Hermione commented lightly, though her gaze remained stern as it left the toast to follow the young Weasley around the kitchen. "You're certainly up early."

"Not really." Ginny inspected a banana. "It's almost nine."

Ron shot Hermione a worried look. "Is Harry up?"

"Still sleeping, don't worry." She broke the skin at the top and began peeling it. The silence went on for a few moments before she added, almost offhandedly, "If I was him, I'd be pretty upset that you two always seem to be having secret discussions about me. Shutting up the minute someone enters a room isn't promising either. What, are you planning to kill him or something?"

"No!" Hermione said indignantly.

"Almost," Ron snapped in the same breath, glaring at Hermione.

Ginny looked from one to the other, openly curious. She set the banana down and took a seat across from the duo. "Go on, spill."

"Ron," the older witch began in a placating voice, setting a hand on his arm. He glared at her.

"Hermione, genius that she is, has decided that she will drag Harry and me overseas to Canada for education. Most unfortunately, the college she has selected has teachers that can't even sort their elbows from their a-"

"Wet Carpets," Ginny declared in recognition. She grinned at his startled expression. "This isn't news to me, you know. I read about their trial in the Daily Prophet. Dumbledore was there – stands to reason he would have recommended you three, doesn't it? After all, Harry single-handedly defeated Voldemort – oh, stop jumping about, Ronald – and you two are basically his foundation, right? The Daily Prophet said something about recommendations-"

"The Daily Prophet says a hell of a lot more than it should," Hermione snarled, and thrust that morning's issue at Ginny. She glanced at it, wiped a spot of marmalade from the headline, and inhaled sharply.

"My God. How many Muggles-?"

"Seventy-three," Ron cut in, with an angry look at his friend.

Ginny scanned the rest of the article, then shook her head in dismay and set it aside. "I hope Dumbledore knows what he's doing, sending you there."

Ron looked from a very red-faced Hermione to his sister in obvious bewilderment. "Wait. Wait a minute. What does Dumbledore have to do with this? No, no, Ginny, you've got it wrong, it was Hermione's idea-" Both Weasleys glanced at her questioningly.

Brown eyes flashed a warning. Ginny got the message.

"Oh, right. Sorry, my mistake. But obviously he approves of the college, or else he wouldn't have recommended the three of you-"

Hermione shook her head violently. Ron was starting to get irritated as he looked from one girl to the other. "No, I applied for the full scholarship. He didn't recommend me-"

"The full scholarship? Wasn't that given to Hermione?"

"No, we received a letter saying he got it," the older witch declared firmly, staring at the other girl in desperation.

"I thought-"

"How do you know about that?" Ron demanded.

"Did I say I knew about that?"

"Didn't you?"

"You told me!"

"I did?"

"For God's sake, Ron," Hermione snapped, reaching for her orange juice with shaky hands, "try not to act like an imbecile when we get to Canada."

"I don't like this business of you keeping secrets-"

"Ron-" She sounded truly agitated now, and her hands were trembling badly.

"Why can't you tell me?"

"Because I can't!" Her hold on the glass slipped; it plummeted from her fingers and shattered on the floor. Hermione blindly put a hand to her mouth. There was a deadly silence.

Ron stared at her, and then at the shards. Feeling his gaze upon her, the brunette closed her eyes, willing back tears. "Sorry," she muttered, and sniffled. "I'll clear it up."

"No, we'll do it," Ginny cut in, sounding anxious. "You should probably go back to sleep, Hermione. You're right, it is early. For summer, anyway." Nodding wearily, the other got to her feet. "Ron? I can't do magic out of school; would you be so kind?"

"Only if you explain all this business about Dumbledore first," he retorted, obstinate as always, and crossed his arms.

"Who said anything about Dumbledore?" his sister responded airily, sounding almost cocky, though her worried eyes were following Hermione as she left the room. Ron watched the departure too.

"What's wrong with her?" he demanded in an undertone.

"She has a lot to deal with right now."

"Such as?"

"You."

"I changed my mind," Ron growled, drawing his wand out of his bathrobe pocket. "You're still more annoying than Hermione."

"Charmed. Now clean that up before Mum gets down here."

The redhead said four syllables under his breath and the orange juice vanished, taking all trace of broken glass with it. "Is anyone going to explain anything to me?"

"No," Ginny replied cheerfully, "because it's none of your business." Turning away from her brother, she tried to sound lighthearted, though the expressive eyes were darkened with concern for Hermione. And the secrets they were both being forced to carry.

"You okay, sis?"

"I'm fine," she answered, but her voice lacked conviction. "Now, what did I do with that banana?"

* * *

Minerva had woken to the sound of talons against glass, an eerie scraping that made her flinch and shiver under her downy quilt. One bleary eye opened. Uncanny sunlight filled her Hogwarts quarters, sunlight obstructed by a winged shape at the window. Chagrined, she managed to open both eyes. What the bloody hell was that? 

An owl. Definitely an owl.

She dug bony knuckles into her eyes, shuddering with the effort of containing a yawn. Was it the morning post? How long had she been asleep? Over the summer, the Daily Prophet didn't arrive until about nine! She winced. She was an old woman; she usually got up around seven. To have been caught sleeping so late was almost an embarrassment. Though it would explain why her room was so bright...

Somewhere she found the strength to push the covers back and stand. Curling her bare toes on her bedside Oriental rug, she yawned again and fumbled for her rectangular spectacles. Another stern rap was heard from the window.

"I'm coming, I'm coming." She crossed to the latch, muttering to herself. Delivery owls were getting more cocky all the time. Her bony fingers strained against the pane, pushing it up; the metal fastenings gave a frightful squeal and began to slide. "It won't kill you to wait a few seconds, you know. The entire universe does not revolve around one person..."

_I can't believe this. I'm talking to owls like they're students. God, I'm overtired._

"Five Knuts for the Daily Prophet, I believe." Leaving the window open, she turned back to her dresser and opened a drawer, picking out several bronze coins from her collection of gadgets. As a teacher whose duties sometimes involved confiscation, she had assembled quite an intriguing variety of items over the years, among which could be found multiple dead goldfish, a neon-pink Play-Doh Balrog, a Windex bottle filled with Filch's Anti-Explosive Window Wiper (Highly Toxic), and, of course, a collection of loose change. She was so intent on her quest that she failed to notice that more than one bird had entered her room; she discovered this only when she turned and found not one but three owls on her bed. At least, two of them were owls. The third...

It had fiery plumage and intellectual features, reminding Minerva strongly of Fawkes. A phoenix? Accepting its letter, she recognized Dumbledore's handwriting. This _was _Fawkes, then. Why was the headmaster sending a letter to her when he might have come in person?

She ripped it open and read the curly script in mounting bewilderment.

* * *

Dear Minerva, 

Business to take care of. I would say more but you've doubtless seen the Daily Prophet already – suffice it to say that I've been at the American Ministry for the past two hours, trying to convince Tom not to withdraw the Wet Carpets lease. He is v. suspicious of us. I wish I could explain everything to him, but after this morning's article, I think it's best if we all keep our mouths shut and just hope for the best. The Ministry doesn't need another mess to clean up.

I've left instructions for all of my messages to go to you. You should receive one from Keith about our arrangement. V. important. Please cross your fingers... Granger has been doing extraordinary work but things seem to be at a very unsteady stage. I won't be easy until term has started.

I'll be back sometime this evening.

Yours in all sincerity,

Albus

* * *

Minerva set the letter aside, doubly confused. The Daily Prophet article... what Daily Prophet article? She glanced at the five Knuts she still held, and then back at the bed. One of the two owls was holding a rolled-up newspaper. 

Setting his due payment in the pouch, she snatched at the paper and unrolled it.

COLLEGE BLOWS COVER

"Oh, no," she whispered. "Oh, Albus."

It seemed that one of the college Heads had sent out their acceptance letters in daylight, causing the owls to be revealed to no less than seventy-three Muggles. Minerva winced. No wonder the headmaster was in such distress. He had been antsy enough after Voldemort's death, worrying about Harry until he was an inch from madness. Minerva had been his only confidante... she knew exactly what his fears were and what danger that Potter boy was really in.

When Oyster had asked for recommendations, Dumbledore had been able to figure out a way to use Wet Carpets for their advantage; only Keith and Hermione knew of his plan, though Ginny (bright girl that she was, Minerva mused) probably suspected. But if they were making mistakes this early...

Miss Granger would have to be even more careful, that was all.

If Albus was right, then it was crucial – _crucial_ – that nobody else discovered what they were up to. Wet Carpets was small, and few people knew about it, so their suspicions would be allayed; but after today...

Minerva reached for the last owl's letter and slit it open.

* * *

Dear Albus and Minerva, 

Potter, Granger, and Weasley have been accepted. Granger gave her full scholarship to Weasley thanks to her smarts and a stroke of serendipity; Oyster came up with the idea. Without any of my prodding, too. But I believe he and Janet know there's something afoot.

Anyway, it was a close call, but your three are enrolled. Don't worry. Everything's still going fairly smooth, despite what the Daily Prophet says. It's a bad piece of publicity that might hinder us later, but for now, your plan has taken root. Granger's done extraordinary work.

Dumbledore, I said it at the trial and I'll say it again; you're far too worried about this. Your students are in no danger, whether from outside or within. The worst is over.

-Keith

* * *

Minerva reread it in disgust. So Keith thought Albus was overreacting, did he? Well, he was entitled; she had thought that too, at first. But she also knew, from experience, that if Dumbledore thought something was wrong - he was generally right. A scowl crossed her face. What was wrong with Keith? Didn't he know that Dumbledore was the sagest wizard alive? Whereas he, a young, cocky Care of Dangerous Magical Creatures Professor, was nothing but a young upstart with no insight whatsoever. 

He was in want of a smart bottom, she reflected grimly. Dumbledore's warnings should be heeded at all cost. More importantly, Wet Carpets needed to learn what evil was, and guard against it.

If Dumbledore's theory was correct, they might even have to guard against one of their own students.

Minerva yawned again and glanced back, yearningly, towards her empty bed. It would be so nice to go back to sleep, without having to worry about a college or her students or Dumbledore... Or maybe just send Keith a Howler, that would be fun too. Sighing, she rubbed her angular chin, and then stretched. A few vertebrae made a clicking sound. She pressed her hands to her lower back and bent as far as she could. The release was like a direct infusion of Waking Potion, though not enough to dispel all of her sleepiness. If only they had Starbucks at Hogwarts. Maybe Snape could arrange something. Now, _that _would be an interesting conversation...

She straightened and went to her mirror. Alert hawk eyes peered back at her, sparkling with ripe anticipation of a challenge. Grinning wickedly, she reached for one of her robes. Too bad term hadn't started; she was suddenly in the perfect mood to go patrolling the hallways, turn on Ice Mode, and give detention to eight different people. Suddenly the Howler/Keith idea was more appealing than ever.

_Who says gray hair makes someone decrepit?_

* * *

I had to go back and rewrite three chapters to make this one work. Ethan, see my dedication and weep. Even if it did take me over a month to update. 

I thought I knew where the plot was going, but I guess not.

Oh, yes: Panda's comment, "si foret in terries, rideret Christ" means, roughly, "If he a witness to this, Christ would laugh."

Sigh...

My story seems to be weaving all over the place...

Ah well. I now have a rough idea of where this is going, and while I may have to go back and rewrite everything again, I have every confidence in my muse.

Till the next update.

-T


	6. Chapter Five: Deep Breath

Chapter Five: Deep Breath

* * *

_I've got the time_

_But I'm wasting it slowly..._

_Here, in this moment,_

_I'm halfway out the door;_

_I wanna do the next thing,_

_I'm searching_

_For something that's missing..._

_There's gotta be more to life_

_Than chasing down every temporary high_

_To satisfy me...._

- "Temporary High," Stacie Orrico

* * *

Dumbledore set his peacock quill down with a sigh and looked out of his office window, wizened blue eyes marking the change of color in the Forbidden Forest trees. Slowly the aldars, beeches, oaks and elms were beginning to show signs of autumn. Hogwarts was readying itself for a new batch of students.

And yet... it was not on his own students that the Headmaster's thoughts dwelt on.

He sighed againand shuffled a stack of papers together. It was amazing, it truly was, that Wet Carpets had gone for five weeks without providing the wizarding world with another scandal. Through Dumbledore's own efforts, the owl delivery had hushed up, but it was a tendency of the three Founders to provide insanity where it was least wanted.

Of course, as soon as their school year started, something was bound to go wrong. Dumbledore knew Keith, Oyster, and Janet Starlight too well to expect anything otherwise, though he did hope that they might aim for discretion this time. The last think they needed was more publicity, the year after Voldemort's demise. In fact, the last thing _Harry Potter_ needed was more publicity.

It could be disastrous, really.

"I think Keith will help," he told Fawkes, reaching out to ruffle the brilliant plumage. Thinking back over that statement, he amended himself: "It doesn't even have to be Keith, just someone to step in when things start to go wrong."

Fawkes crooned.

"That is true." Dumbledore's eyes misted slightly. "Miss Granger will do everything in her power."

He paused for a long time, fingers steepled. Thinking.

"What are your views, Phineas?"

One of the portraits in his study stirred into life, his voice dry and reedy. "You've never doubted yourself before, Dumbledore."

Albus sighed. "I did study Necromancy and Divination with professionals born after your time, Phineas, and there are corresponding rules."

"Do tell."

"Fragments of the future are attracted to someone who will have a pivotal role in it."

His unnerving blue gaze went out the window again.

Phineas coughed slighly. "I realize that you are not accustomed to explaining your thoughts, but you know, I'm a few miles behind you and I'm a bit out of shape, so..."

"Someone, somewhere, already knows how this venture will turn out, even though they have yet to experience it."

There was a lengthy pause.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Who, exactly?"

"We have no way of knowing. I'm more concerned with the poor person who will act as the medium, the go-between for the realms of the living and the dimensions of Hell, so to speak."

Phineas was getting seriously annoyed. He wasn't used to being two steps behind every conversation. However, the "I'm the Headmaster, damnit, give me respect" routine didn't exactly work on, well, another headmaster. Politeness wasn't his style either. He settled for "So, we're looking for a medium and a Seer..." His voice faded as he struggled around another concept. "Really? Hell?"

"Yes, Phineas. Harry Potter's world."

* * *

Marie managed to get a leg up on top of her suitcase. Dragging herself up, she got unsteadily to her feet and tentatively bounced a couple of times. Snoopy squinted. "Nope, still isn't shut."

"Damnit!" She slammed her whole weight down. The abused suitcase groaned.

"Seven inches to go," Kayla said encouragingly.

"Let me handle this." Nose in the air, Tessa pushed her way through the crowd of spectators and hauled herself up next to Marie. "On three, okay?"

She nodded, face screwed up in concentration.

"One - two - three!"

They landed heavily and had to clutch at each other to save themselves from falling off. Tessa squealed as the suitcase's lid was lurched down another inch.

Marie paused to catch her breath and disentangle Tessa's hands with her ginger hair. A furrow appeared between her eyebrows as she stared down at her suitcase. "I don't understand it. I filled two bookbags to the brim with about half of what was in here before and this thing still won't shut."

"Nothing breakable in there, I hope," Snoopy commented dryly, cynism in mortal form.

"Duh. I'm not stupid. I packed all my shampoo, lotion, body creme, nail polish, conditioner, Aveda, bubble bath, facial cream, nail polish remover, estringent, body wash, soap, hand cream, and toothpaste in a separate suitcase," Marie informed her. "And I spelled everything else against breaking."

She eventually became aware of their blank stares.

"What?"

"Marie, we are going to a college, not a spa."

"Obviously. If I'd have thought that we were going to a spa, I wouldn't have brought anything," said Marie cheerfully. "That way I'd be obliged to replenish my supplies." She bounced again on the suitcase. It sank another two inches. Kayla and Kate started to clap.

"Shea, we need you," Tessa called.

Obediently the girl clambered up beside her. The three of them, arms linked for stability as they teetered, looked almost comical on the bulging luggage.

"One - two - three!"

The seams burst a couple of stitches as the suitcase finally crunched shut. Snoopy mustered all the courage she had to lunge forward and grab the zipper, dragging it around the splitting corners until the thing was bound closed. Everyone exhaled slowly.

"Well, that was fun," Tessa remarked. Cautiously she sat down on the edge and slid herself off. Marie followed, with slightly less grace. There was a long pause while each girl looked at the others, silently asking "what happens now?"

" 'The last suitcase is packed, the last tears are shed.'" Shea sighed, gazing at Marie's luggage with open nostalgia. "I never thought we'd come to this day. Do you realize that we are entering a new chapter in our lives?"

"Not quite yet," Kate admonished, glancing at her watch. "We're leaving for the train station at half-past twelve."

Marie winced at that reminder. Taking a firm grip on her suitcase handle, she dragged it out of her room, bellowing "Mommm!"

"What?"

"We got the last suitcase shut!" The girls heard a distant cheer. Marie laughed as she vanished into the hall, luggage bouncing along behind her. "I'll take it out to the car."

"I don't understand why we have to take the train," Kayla grumbled. "I know it's traditional, but we could just Apparate or take a Portkey, instead of spending all that money on train tickets."

"You know what?" said Tessa thoughtfully. "I don't think we are taking the train. Do any of you have your tickets?"

There was a general shaking of heads, and a meditative silence fell, broken only by the sound of a slamming car hatch. Shea leaned forward, the August sun slanting through the windows on her face. "Did anyone get a Portkey in her acceptance-letter envelope?"

"No," the others chorused.

She shrugged and flopped back against the pillows, blowing the whole thing off. "I'm sure it'll be fine, Tess. They wouldn't strand us right before term."

"I wonder," Snoopy muttered. Shea threw a pillow at her.

* * *

Twelve-thirty came and went.

Janet Starlight waited next to her lime-green Bug, drumming her fingers on the spotless rearview mirror. Others in the parking lot were eyeing her aggressively; she flipped her blonde hair back disdainfully and ignored them. She wasn't about to be shooed out of a conveniently-placed handicapped parking space by a bunch of Muggles.

Her uncanny silver eyes traced the outline of the Denver Union Station against the sky. Slowly, her regard was turned to focus on the others in the parking lot. There was an unlikely-looking cyberkid maneuvering his laptop on the curb; a pregnant woman patrolling the sidewalk behind him; a family with three young boys; and a gang of six or so teenaged girls unpacking their minivan. The latter attracted most of her attention, and she watched them drag their bulging suitcases all the way across the asphalt and into the Union Station. Her lips compressed in an uncertain scowl.

Turning back to her car, she shaded the window with her hand and squinted through the glass, trying to make out the digital numbers.

12:47.

She unfolded a much-creased piece of paper and examined it, then crumpled it in one impetuous fist. Shifting her weight, she resumed drumming her fingers.

A train roared in, rattling down its track and blowing steam every which way. Janet eyed it coldly. In spite of her tight schedule, she had been enjoying the silent noon air, and this was an unwelcome distraction. She was more than a little pleased when it rolled out again about ten minutes later.

Then a thought struck her, and she winced, checking the clock again.

12:59. Even as she watched, the red lines flickered and reassembled themselves: 1:00.

_Now_ she was late.

"Come on...." she murmured, fingers beating a tattoo into the metal of her car. Nerves made her shift her weight from one foot to the other. Back and forth, back and forth...

Her students wouldn't actually have boarded a train, would they? Even if it was a one-o'-clock departure? She should have said something before they went in. Oyster should have told them in their letters that she was -

Loud and distressed voiced broke into her reverie, and she looked up in relief. The six teenagers had returned to the parking lot, shouting at each other in obvious panic.

"Well, what was I supposed to do?" a redhead barked. "They said there was no direct track to Canada. I'm not about to spend hundreds of dollars on a ticket to Idaho!"

"They should have sent us directions," the tallest groused.

The shortest was nearly in tears. "We have eight minutes before one! We're going to miss our train!"

"There _is_ no train, Tessa!" the redhead bellowed in exasperation, and a fight broke out among the girls.

"If you had-"

"Why the hell didn't they-"

Janet had heard enough. These were definitely her students. Tucking the paper into her jeans pocket, she stepped onto the sidewalk, moving purposefully towards the girls. Two stopped arguing to gape at her. She knew she was a formidable sight... she was wearing low-slung bellbottoms, a gray tube top that accented her frightening eyes, and dark lipgloss that gave her an almost vampirical look. The length of her glossy fingernails probably didn't help either.

First year students couldn't be expected to know her - she knew that - but she wasn't in the mood for prolongued explanations. Stopping a few feet away from them, she waited to speak until she had their full attention.

One by one, astonished gazes were turned to examine her. She sighed.

"We're late, so just get in the car without questions, okay?"

A few jaws hung loose. She waved her hands impatiently. "The car? You know? Metal thing on wheels?"

Still no response.

Had she been wrong, then? No - no, they just didn't understand. Oyster really should have said something...

The fact that they were running late made her snappish. "Look, are you enrolled at Wet Carpets or not?" Taking out her paper again, she checked the list of names. " 'Denver Union Station: Virginia (also known as Snoopy), Marie, Tessa, Kate...'"

"That's us," the tallest said weakly.

_Dear sweet Father, give me patience._ "I know it's you! So get in the goddamn car!"

"Are you..."

"Head of the House of Cynics, professor of Spell Configuration and Construction, at your service. Janet Starlight's the name. Sharp of tongue and short of temper. Will you please get in the car?"

"I thought you went to Hogwarts," someone grumbled quietly.

"Shea, shuttup!"

Janet's sharp ears had no mercy. "I did. Does it matter?"

"Your British accent is totally fake," she complained. Seeing the color rise in Janet's cheeks, the girl quickly added, "I know, I know. The car. I'm on my way."

The blonde rolled her eyes as she pointed them in the direction of her Bug. Turning back to their suitcases, she tried to lift one and failed.

"They packed bloody bricks. Oh, fabulous."

Shooting a quick, irritated glance around the parking lot, she saw no eyes on her. The family with the boys had vanished into the Union Station; the pregnant woman was loading her suitcases into a red Toyota. Perfect.

Slipping her wand out of her back jeans pocket, Janet muttered a quick incantation. The luggage vanished. She turned smugly and started after her students, only to see the cyberkid - temporarily forgotten - staring wide-eyed at her. His laptop slid from his unresisting fingers and crashed on the asphalt.

Her wand was still out.

Damn.

There was no time to think.

"_Obliviate,_ _reparo!_"

He blinked and shook his head as if to dislodge a thought. The busted laptop reassembled itself and returned to the curb. He stared at it, then at Janet. She winced under his suspicious gaze. Time to get out of here.

Her searching eyes pinned the girls where they stood, obviously bewildered, by her car, and she growled to herself. If the rest of the day was going to be like this, she should just resign now. "_Now_ what is it?"

"Um... you know that we won't all fit in there, right?"

"Well, obviously!" The Head of House glowered at them. They looked away, and she relented a little. "Just open the door, you - Marie, is it?"

Marie obeyed and stuck her head in. Her gasp was muffled, but everyone still heard it. The rest of her body vanished into the backseat. Suspicions slightly allayed, the others followed her.

"Oh my God!" One stuck her head back out to goggle at Janet. "What did you do to it?"

The blonde smirked to herself, opened the door to the driver's side, and climbed in. A minute later, the engine roared into life, and they peeled out of the parking lot.

The cyberkid stared after them for a long, long time.

* * *

Ron stuffed a last pair of orange-and-purple striped socks into his suitcase, closed it, and snapped the hatches. "I think that's everything," he told Pigwidgeon. The miniature owl peeped cheerfully, in a way that suggested the peep might have been a hoot in a bigger owl, but, hey, it's the effort that counts.

Ron got up and paced to the window. Resting his forehead on the glass, he stared out over the Burrow grounds and sighed.

"I still can't believe we're going to a bloody college. A nutty, psychotic, bloody college. What was Hermione thinking?"

Pig peeped again, sympathetically.

"I know," said Ron absently. "She's crazy."

Peep, peep.

"She can't help it; it just shows through sometimes. Like that spew thing, and her third-year boggart-" The redhead snorted with laughter. "That was priceless."

Peep.

"But enrolling us in college is about as bad as it gets," Ron conceded. "I wouldn't mind it so much, if I could only understand her motive."

There was a soft chuckle behind him and he turned to see Hermione herself lounging in the doorway, dark eyes laughing at him. Seeing his distress, she let her smile widen as she entered the room.

"I love it when you talk to Pig. It's so cute."

"Oh, God help me. I'm 'cute,'" Ron groaned, but there was a smile on his face as he watched her examine his trunk. Hefting it, she raised an eyebrow at its weight, or lack thereof.

"This is all you're taking? No spellbooks?"

A frown creased his gingery brows. "I've been kind of wondering about that. In our Hogwarts letters, we always got a list of textbooks that we needed. But from this college?" He turned to his desk and rummaged in the papers, finally coming up with his envelope. "First, our acceptance letter." He held it up as proof; Hermione nodded. "And then..." He fished out the second slip of parchment and read it. " 'Please bring your pewter cauldron, hide gloves, and all previous Divination supplies.'"

"I _know_ they didn't ask us to bring any spellbooks. I'm asking why you didn't bring them anyway," Hermione retorted.

"Why would I, if they're not required?"

" 'Not required.'" The witch repeated the words with obvious distaste. When Ron caught sight of her face, she looked annoyed. "Dumbledore told me that the Heads didn't believe in 'book-learning,' but I didn't want to believe him." Then she brightened a little. "But I hear they have an excellent library anyway."

"Hermione." The redhead caught her by the arm as she made for the door. "Just tell me. Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Taking us to this... school. One that you obviously don't approve of." Ron paused as something else occured to him. "You just mentioned Dumbledore again!"

"Oh, don't be silly, Ron. It will be a gratifying experience. Dumbledore just wants the best for his students." She bustled past him, avoiding his eyes. "I'm going to put your luggage downstairs. We should be leaving for King's Cross any minute. Harry?"

"I'm ready, 'Mione." The Boy Who Lived set down his trunk in the doorway, pushing sweaty hair out of his eyes.

"Did _you_ bring spellbooks?" Hermione demanded.

"Spellbooks?"

"She's going on about how they don't believe in 'book-learning' in Wet Carpets," Ron explained.

The haggard face broke into an unusual grin. "Genius."

"I know. Dumbledore could learn a thing or two from them," the redhead replied, feigning cheerfulness - but his eyes suddenly stung. He turned away, blinking hard. The rare sight of Harry smiling and joking as though the last four or so months had never happened made it unreasonably hard to swallow. As young boys, they had mocked Trelawney, tortured Snape, and driven Filch up the wall: good times. Good times buried in the past. Too much had changed for them to resume the roles of innocent (well, not really, but you get the point) kids.

He glanced up to find Hermione's eyes fixed knowingly on him, and a small part of his skeptism melted. Was this her motive, then? To try to change Harry back into the boy he had been?

Harry coughed, bringing them out of their shared reverie. "I hate it when you do that," he commented ruefully to Ron.

"What?" Hermione was motherly concern in an instant.

The young man waved his hand expressively. "Vanish like that, and leave me behind. What was that? A telepathic conversation about the shameful misuse of textbooks in colleges?"

Ron cleared his throat a couple of times and tried to grin. "It started out that way, but then Hermione started a round of strip tennis."

"Ron!"

Harry's lips twitched. "I'm... taking these downstairs," he said hurriedly, gesturing at their assembled suitcases. He could sense Hermione's disapproving frown, but wouldn't risk looking directly at her - he would explode. Picking up a trunk in each hand, he started from the room, when a thought seemed to strike him and he turned back.

"Oh, and Ron - tell me who wins, won't you?"

He'd barely ducked in time; Hermione's well-aimed slipper thwacked against the wall behind him. They heard him go chuckling all the way down the stairs.

The bushy-haired witch slumped onto the bed, eyes uncommonly bright. Ron stared at her. "Are you okay? The tennis thing was just a joke, you know. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings-"

"Oh, Ron, shut up." She rested her head against the bedpost, a wistful expression crossing her face as she listened to Harry's receding footsteps. "You're incredibly egotistical sometimes."

"I thought we agreed that you would give me a dictionary before you start insulting me," the redhead protested.

"I mean you think too much about yourself," she snapped. "I bet you didn't even notice what just happened."

"He was.... acting happy?" the wizard ventured.

"He laughed. He actually laughed," Hermione murmured in wonder. Her gaze left the doorway to find Ron's eyes on her, and she hastily sniffed back the tears. "_Now_ do you believe that Wet Carpets was a good idea?"

"We haven't gotten there yet," he reminded her. "It could turn out to be a total disaster. And laughing at a joke is a normal reaction, you know."

"I despair of you."She stood briskly, grasped the last suitcases and lurched unsteadily to the door. Her voice floated back to Ron.

"And every little bit helps. Are you coming, or not? We should have been at King's Cross five minutes ago."

He grabbed Pig's cage and followed her down the stairs.

* * *

Grr. I thought I'd get to the actual journey in this chapter, but what can you do?

I am SO SO sorry that this took me so bloody long. Still, nine pages, eh? pats self on back It's Snoopy. She guilted me into finishing it. Marie and Kate helped too.

Megan, haven't introduced you quite yet. Kisses better?

Happy elongated birthday to Ethan. I'm mad at you, you know. Your present is turning into an epic. It's very sad. I have no control over my own stories.

Love you all!

Till the next update,

-T

Oh, by the way, the chapter title "Deep Breath" comes from Gandalf's line "the deep breath before the plunge." I thought it could be interpreted in so many ways that it was perfect for this chapter ;)


	7. Chapter Six: The Little Green Bug

Chapter Six: The Little Green Bug

* * *

_Jump in,_

_It's fine without a lifeboat,_

_I will_

_Give it another try..._

_You say "Come back -_

_Don't go in too deep,"_

_But it's a rush to see me do it_

_'Cause you don't dare,_

_Even though there's nothing to it..._

Meredith Brooks, "Crazy"

* * *

The King's Cross clock tolled noon, and the sun's heat seemed to intensify. It was a pity, really: a crowded, clamorous train station is already unbearable, by anyone's standards. Add a scorching sun, and steaming pavement, and you've basically got Hell. Do you need proof? Look around: in every direction, the clusters of lost souls and fallen angels shout at each other about tickets and forgotten toiletries... cloying, sooty smoke billows from departing trains... Muggle vehicles flood the parking lot, their drivers cursing each other - ironically - to eternal damnation.

This was no different from the other days. The afternoon crowds had arrived, and the curbs were slick with excess gasoline. As the trains began to pull in, men and women alike raced to the bathrooms, sometimes bearing small children aloft by the strength of sheer desperation.

They were definitely not the cleanest bathrooms. The women's especially was constantly strewn with toilet paper, gum wrappers, and Tampex boxes, and the drain in the far corner seemed to have stopped working, leaving the dingy tiles soaked in a constant centimeter of water. Furthermore, the farthest stall was always locked, and had an OUT OF ORDER sign hung askew on it.

Occasionally strange conversations could be heard from behind the closed door, but the Muggles had learned to ignore it - or at least, not complain about it. It's amazing how discouraging gaurds can be when you go up to them and say, "Please, sir, can you do something about the people locked in the women's bathroom? They're being kind of loud."

The wizards had claimed it for their own, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Humans adapt surprisingly quickly. Bladders can generally wait until you've gotten to the restrooms on the other side of the building, if the alternative is listening to someone recite Gilderoy Lockheart's Guide to Degnoming your Garden. (Note: King's Cross was a living, breathing defiance to the Ministry's attempts to keep wizardry undercover. The popular argument: Out of Order toilets make weird sounds _anyway_, so what was the problem?)

But worse than all of this was the noises... the loud, frightening sounds that erupted with strange frequency at the end of every August.

Such a day as this...

Another train rolled out of the station, leaving behind the typical swarm of people, each one weaving in and out of the maze: other people's stacks of luggage, strewn here and there and radiating a smell of hairspray. Maternal females swept their offspring (grown or not, it made no difference) up into delighted hugs. Other families reunited with the usual feigned exclamations along the lines of "You look great! I'm so glad to see you!" Long-parted lovers clung to each other, trying to sort out the tangle that was their tongues.

But even these common affections were slightly subdued today. There was a lingering apprehension in the air, a foreboding stillness that silenced even the most obnoxious mother-in-law. August was waning; this was routine. Every year the station became flooded with spotty youths bearing owls and oddly-shaped sticks, with one or two of the parents decked out in uniforms reminiscent of Jedi Knights', and - most disturbingly of all - individuals discreetly walking through walls...

...moreover, individuals whom nobody could recall entering from a parking lot or a train...

The clock tolled the quarter hour, and a whiplash snap shattered the air.

It sounded almost like a gunshot.

Two more followed it - crack! crack! - and then there was silence. The crowds around the bathrooms thinned out, as they always did when it began.. But other than that, the sounds were ignored. The Muggles had learned their lessons well.

"Ouch, Ernie!"

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

Silence reigned for about five more minutes; then two more cracks lashed out, almost at the same time. Anyone with an eye for the occult would recognize the sound as an Apparition.

_Why not a portkey? _a stranger to Britain's wizardry might ask. _It would draw less attention, wouldn't it? _

A brief bit of history might be appropriate here, in explanation: the Ministry of Britain had used that very argument to fight against the blatant exposure for years, and in 1974 they'd finally ruled against any public Apparating. Portkeys were used by the miffed wizards for three Augusts in a row before a janitor picked up a discarded Tampex box at precisely the wrong time, and was promptly transported to Chipping Sodbury. In the resulting local choas, he sued King's Cross, and ended up getting on a talk show about it two weeks later, before he was apprehended and Obliviated. There, he proceeded to use the phrase "magical conspiracy" four times. The Ministry gave up and gave Apparators free rein.

A visitor tugged the sleeve of a passerby, started to ask a question, and was promptly hushed. Already the huge, sweaty masses of people were beginning to disperse, most escaping into the comparative safety of the parking lot.

Crack!

* * *

"Hannah, my angel! You made it!"

"Be careful with that suitcase, Neville. And by that I mean get it off my foot."

"Oh, sorry!"

Again, the King's Cross clock reminded them all that it was getting close to one-o'-clock, and somebody gave a little moan of hunger. "God, I'm starving..."

There was another loud crack, and a new voice launched into the conversation. "Did you bring Gerald? I wasn't sure if they allowed us to bring our owls or not..."

"He's flying ahead..."

There was the metallic snick! of a lock being drawn back, and then two girls and a boy, dragging their luggage, strolled out of the women's bathroom together, looking a little too nonchalant to be feasible. They moved into the throng of people, radiating innocence, and faded into the crowd. Meanwhile, the conversations behind them went on.

"Did you see the Daily Prophet article about that owl thing? Wasn't it embarrassing? If I hadn't enrolled, I would have split my sides laughing at them."

"They sound like total retards to me. How can you be stupid enough to send out dozens of owls in full daylight?"

Three more sharp, abrupt noises whiplashed over their heads.

Then silence.

Not even the disembodied voices were talking anymore.

* * *

Hermione grumbled in the sudden wave of heat and put a hand up instinctively. Fingers touched oily, tiled wall, and she reeled away in disgust, feeling contaminated. Though she was Muggle-born and defended their way of life staunchly, she had to concede that the public hygiene could improve.

Turning her eyes away from her fingers, trying not to hypothesize how many germs had transferred onto her skin, she looked around. Ron pushed a lock of red hair out of his eyes and gave her a weary smile. Behind him, Harry staggered to his feet, hands still grimly clinging to his suitcase.

"This is fun," the Weasley commented, glancing down at their sneakers, all of which were submerged in a curious half-inch of liquid. If it wasn't water, none of them wanted to speculate. "Where do we go from here?"

His eyes darted around the stony faces, noting the silence. Every wizard's eye was trained on Harry.

Harry. She could see their thoughts as though they were being written in the air: This was Harry. Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. The murdurer.

_Stupid, _Hermione thought desperately. _It was stupid to think they wouldn't react this way. He killed Voldemort - I know, I know, they have a right, but still -_

She was unaware, but her eyes pleaded for someone, anyone, to say something -

Pansy Parkinson, of all people, noticed the desperate look. To hide her uncharacteristic empathy, she gave Hermione a little sneer and moved to the door. "Well, I'm off."

"I'll come with you," said another girl gratefully - Hermione recognized Hannah Abbot of Hufflepuff - and it was a testimony to the situation's awkwardness that Pansy actually stepped aside and let her pass. The stall door shut again.

"Ron, hi!" Another brave soul forced his way through the crowded stall to greet the newcomers. It was Ernie, recently of Hufflepuff. "You made it, good. Hello, Hermione, Harry-" and it was impossible not to notice how his eyes, too, lingered - just for a moment - on the prominent scar. "I hope your summer was-"

He stopped in horror. It was one of those sayings that your mouth has stored on autopilot, like "How are you?" but at the moment, such a question was tactless. Harry had narrowly escaped bleeding to death in June, and even now a lot of people wondered if death wouldn't have been more merciful. All in all - not the best thing to inquire after.

Harry was aware of the blunder, too. His uncanny emerald eyes flicked up to meet Ernie's, briefly, and though he did not yet smile, the cold regard softened a little.

"Coulda been better, but, you know."

Ron started at the casual way Harry responded. There was a collective sigh of relief, and a few conversations were hurriedly resurrected.

"So, Gerald's flying ahead."

"Yeah. Hey, Ron, are Pig and Hedwig gonna meet you there? You don't have 'em with you."

"What?" said Ron, still watching Harry avidly. "Oh, yeah... yeah, they are."

Ernie beamed as the tension dissapated. "Good. Come on then, you're the last, I think. There's nine of us from Hogwarts - I think Dumbledore gave ten applications, four applied on their own, and then five backed out at the last minute, Malfoy among them, thank God - and Neville, Padma, and Parvati have already gone, so we're running a bit late."

"I know," Hermione complained, giving Ron a ding upside the head. Catching her urgent glance, he hastily dropped his gaze. "These two wouldn't get a move on."

"You all stayed at the Burrow over the summer, correct?" Ernie unlatched the stall door and they all went through, walking together out of the women's bathroom. An unusual sight to be sure.

"That's right."

"Ernie!"

Neville came panting up to them. He, too, did the smallest of double takes when he saw Harry, but the expression on his face was one of joy rather than fear. "Harry! You made it!" He flung his arms impulsively around the teen hero's neck. Ron's eyes widened, almost impercepibly, at the easy gesture. "I knew you would."

"Good to see you too, Neville." Harry's voice, though still hoarse from long disuse, was dripping amusement. "Though I would like to breathe."

"Yeah." The boy let go, turned to Ernie. "Professor Starlight's getting pissed, you better come. She says she won't let anyone get in until everyone's there, and she doesn't want to have to repeat herself, either."

" 'Let anyone get in'? 'Starlight'?" Hermione repeated. "What on earth do you mean?She's here?"

The trio exchanged a glance. The only time they'd ever encountered a teacher _at the train station _was third year, when Lupin rode up to Hogwarts with them. To have a professor actually come to meet them was strange.

_But then, this isn't Hogwarts, _Hermione reminded herself. _We're gonna have to adjust to this style of magic._

In spite of herself, she scowled. Utter chaos. So far, she disapproved.

"Does she have our train tickets?" Ron demanded.

Neville's pudgy face split into a grin. "Just come see." He lifted a hand and pointed - not back towards the trains, but out to the parking lot. "She's waiting."

"_What?_" said the four together.

* * *

Janet Starlight was a punctual person. She prided herself on it. But even so, she had to raise her eyebrows at her new British students, all nine assembled in front of her little green bug with still eight minutes to go before one-o'-clock. They had even loaded in their own luggage.

"Impressive. Best so far."

They still looked confused, glancing with open contempt at her car back to her. She could practically hear their petulant voices in her head, clamoring with protests about space, about time conundrums, _this is impossible, we're not all going to fit in there! It's a Bug for Christ's sake!_

She inspected her nails coolly. One of the crowd, a redhead, looked impatient and would have spoken if his female companion hadn't stepped on his foot.

Utterly silent. Very impressive. That Denver crowd had nothing on these. She might have awarded them all medals then and there if one of them hadn't shattered her growing respect, propping her hand on her hip and saying, imperiously, "Is this some sort of a joke?"

Janet raised perfectly trimmed eyebrows. "Your name?"

"Pansy."

"Pansy what?"

"Parkinson." The girl, too, inspected her own nails, whether in mockery or in an attempt to be brazen Janet couldn't tell.

"Pansy Parkinson what?"

The complacency of the girl was somewhat shattered, and she couldn't keep a frown from her alabaster brow, so to speak. "What do you mean?"

Janet evaluated her. Brunette, cold, shrewd, bitchy. Probably going to her House. Damn.

"You nine are the remains of fifteen prospective students from Hogwarts," she said, turning away from the youth to address the entire group. "I'm sorry to lose so many, but Wet Carpets is a college and your term there isn't meant as a playtime."

"The owl incident proves that, doesn't it?" Pansy muttered, just audibly. Janet ignored her, though her voice grew stronger with her suppressed rage.

"I am one of the three professors you will be tutoring under, and you will address me as such at all times, now let's try that again - _Pansy Parkinson what?_"

The girl looked bored. "Pansy Parkinson, Professor 'Starlight.'" She deftly inserted the quotations. Janet sighed. It would have been easier to bear if she didn't now know that this one was _definitely_ going to the House of Annoying Jerk-Offs. She shoots, she scores. _She better learn soon that I can be a bitch too._

"You'll learn fast enough," she said, and while the words could be construed as an acknowledged defeat, her voice put knives into it. "Alright, get in the car, everyone."

"We won't all fit in there," one said timidly.

Her gaze turned to him, and he wilted. There was a pause. She scanned his face, wondering why he looked so familiar; and then it snapped. "Longbottom. Frank Longbottom."

He looked down, but not fast enough: she caught the shine of suddenly wet eyes. His voice was surprisingly steady, though. "S'my dad, Professor."

"Stupid of me," she said, matching his detached manner exactly. Inwardly she was raging. Damnit! Damnit! Alice and Frank were in St. Mungo's! How could she have been so stupid? "You'll be Neville."

"Yes."

"Well, Neville Longbottom, would you like to be first into the car? Prove yourself wrong."

He stared at her, and she saw the brief flicker of fear.

"There's no monsters, boy," she said as gently as she could.

That stung, she could see it. He strode to the passenger door and yanked it open, sticking his head inside without the slightest hesitation. A moment later he was back out, looking stunned.

"However did you get it so big?"

Janet smiled and shooed them all in before climbing in herself, glancing back once at the long stretch of hallway and crowded compartments before turning the keys in the ignition. A train's sharp whistle blasted overhead, and the corridor billowed momentarily with steam.

"That's everyone," she said, checking "Britain" off her list. A few seconds passed; at last she grimaced, leaned back in her seat, and scowled out the window. "Pansy Parkinson indeed."

* * *

To fully comprehend the chaos that a bunch of students can create, even in a magically-enhanced car, we must rewind a little. Barely seconds before, Harry had been seething. It was understandable: standing out in the King's Cross parking lot for any period of time was irritating at best. It was too hot in August for this direct sunlight. True, Harry had been amused by the Pansy/Janet banter, but even now he was uncomfortably aware of some curious eyes still on him... He exhaled in annoyance and shifted on the scalding pavement, his green eyes inspecting the lime-colored Bug, for want of a distraction. Conversation still raged around him, but he ignored it, intent on his observations.

"Longbottom. Frank Longbottom," said a distant voice.

"S'my dad, Professor."

_Poor Neville, _Harry mused absently. _He's constantly reminded of his parents. At least nobody does that to me anymore. After all, who interrogates a murdurer? _and he halted that line of thought bitterly.

_No. No pity fests. I promised 'Mione that I would try to be "Harry" again._

_Whatever that means._

He suppressed the cynical thought that it probably had something to do with rainbows and small fluffy animals, and looked back up at Janet.She was talking again.

"Well, Neville Longbottom, would you like to be first into the car? Prove yourself wrong." A moment passed, and then Janet added quietly, "There's no monsters, boy."

Harry lifted up his eyes in astonishment, and sure enough, Neville looked duly annoyed. Swiftly the boy crossed to the car door and wrenched at it, sticking in his head and shoulders to inspect the interior. It seemed only a second had passed before he was standing upright again, looking at them all with open amazement on his face instead of vexation.

"However did you get it so big?" he demanded, staring wide-eyed at Janet.

_What? _Harry blinked.His gaze returned tothe Bug, this time with real interest.

Janet chuckled a tiny bit at their confusion. "Inside, everyone, come on..." She shepherded them towards the car. Neville went in first, with the Patil twins hard on his heels. Harry watched them vanish blankly. "You're a bit early, but we don't have much time to spare to begin with..."

"Harry, c'mon!" Hermione hissed, prodding him in the small of the back. Obediantly, Harry braced his hands on the top of the car roof and half-swung himself in -

landing not on a passenger-seat cushion, as he had anticipated, but on the hard, dark floor of a train corridor.

Impressed, he stood (the ceiling was high enough for a person to move fully upright; that was nice, thought Harry absently) and half-turned back to the open passenger seat. Like a typical Bug, this car had most of the normal gadgets, such as a windshield, a dashboard, a steering wheel and a driver's seat; Harry noted a Starbucks mocha melting slowly in the cupholder. The rest of the car, however, stretched back as far as the eye could see in a replica of a train corridor, with train-compartment doors spattering the hallway. It was the neatest bit of vehicle magic he had ever seen.

His former Hogwarts classmates were halfway down the hall, poking their heads into different compartments and exchanging hellos with people he couldn't see. He took a hesitant step forward. Hermione climbed into the car behind him, and he heard her gasp.

"But... there's no spell for an extension of this size," she murmured, overawed (_but not quite speechless_, Harry thought dryly). "Flitwick never said... maybe a Transfiguration, then, one interrupted in the middle of execution? The spell would have to be really precise to get this sort of detail... Unless it's a hybrid spell, but those are really complicated! And someone would notice a whole train gone missing."

She was silent. Her busy thoughts, however, were practically audible. After a few minutes of meditative cogitation, she spoke. "Maybe she used a Fuse Charm and _Illusen_ed the outside? But an Illusen taps the power she would have needed for this detail... I wonder how the mechanics of it work. What I wouldn't give to see the engine-"

"Hermione," said Ron, coming in behind her, "shut up."

To Harry's surprise, she obeyed.

The redhead grinned at Harry. "Spiffy piece of work, huh?"

"Definitely."

"I hope they have something to eat on this thing," Ron commented, digging his knuckles into his stomach. "I'm hungry already."

Hermione seized the moment for vengeance. "Glutton," she said under her breath.

"Robot."

"Pig."

"Dictionary."

"Children," Harry said soothingly.

"All I said was 'I'm hungry,'" Ron grumbled, shooting a dark look at his companion.

She flapped a hand at him, condescendingly. "I despair of you, Ronald Weasley."

His voice matched hers to the decible. "And I of you, Hermione Granger."

She ignored him. "Where are we sitting, Harry?"

"I don't know," Harry replied. He gestured at the nearest compartment door. "There's a whole train full of seats. Where do you _want _to sit?"

In answer, Ron reached out and slid it open. The conversation within cut off abruptly, and six pairs of female eyes pinned him to the wall.

For a moment he could actually _feel _his Adam's Apple bobbing as he swallowed, nervously;he wanted to say something intelligent, or at least comprehendible, but his tongue was inthe way.

"Gnh. Gnll." He coughed a little. "Eh, hi."

Simultaneously, they grinned at him.

"Look, Shea!" said one of them. "British peeps!"

"Not just any British peeps: _cute _British peeps." A girl who had apparently dyed her hair maroon winked at Ron. "_Real_ people."

Harry actually laughed. Twice in one day. That was a real lapse for him. "Looks like you already have a fan club, Ron." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the girls sit bolt upright, watching him intensely.

Ron's ears went red, but he rallied magnificently. His sleek rebuttal cought Harry, expecting stutters, slightly off gaurd. "Are you sure it's _me_ they're looking at, mate?"

"Mate!" a girl cooed. "Ooaww, he's so cute!"

"Fairly sure," Harry conceded, with a straight face.

Now Ron was flushing. Hermione noticed, and was promptly incensed. "I don't find this amusing," she hissed at Harry. He held up his hands, innocently.

"What did I do?"

She subsided at that. Shea intervened, supposedly with the intention to help matters. "Don't worry, you can be cute too."

Harry could have told her to stop there, but she was on a roll. "But I'm not that drunk yet. Come back tonight, okay?"

Ron desperately tried to hide his hysterics with a fit of racking coughs, but it failed dismally. Hermione slammed the compartment door shut and glared at them, daring them to break the silence.

It might have worked, too...

...if they hadn't proceeded to overhear one of the other girls say, in tones of utter chagrin, "Shea, you idiot. What if she's actually a lesbian?"

Ron bent double, wheezing. Hermione, enraged, went stomping down the hall, shouting back to them some things about shameful embarrassing friends, they were so _humiliating, _why did she put up with them? They certainly didn't appreciate _her, _oh _no,_ even though they wouldn't be alive today without her... They wouldn't even have thought of coming to Wet Carpets if not for her, but she regretted that now, yes she did...

Harry and Ron watched her go all the way down to the end of the train, select a compartment, check that it was empty, and slam it shut behind her. Then they looked at each other.

"So..." Ron jerked his thumb at the compartment containing the girls.

"Yah."

* * *

This chapter is dedicated, in its entirety, to my dearest Kate, whose birthday 'tis. And to celebrate, we're going out tonight to PAINT STUFF! froths Paint paint paint paint paint mwaha... Cheers to Kate! And I know that this story belongs to Ethan, but he's a good boy and can share a little.

Happy birthday, Kate dearest! This is part of my present to you! The best part, I think, but only because it took me a week of deprived sleeping habits to finish it.

Nine pages, wh00t. Not bad.

Lesbian jokes are always nice things to have.

And to you nice folk who don't know us: Shea is scary. Stay far far away.

Review! You know you want to!


	8. Chapter Seven: Canada Bound

Chapter Seven: Canada Bound

* * *

_Making my way downtown,_

_walking fast, faces passed,_

_and I'm home bound..._

_Staring blankly ahead_

_just making my way, _

_making my way_

_through the crowd..._

_And I still need you..._

_And I still miss you..._

Vanessa Carlton, "A Thousand Miles"

* * *

"I can't believe them." 

Hermione gritted her teeth, slammed her bookbag down on the seat next to her, and sat down, glowering at the opposite wall. Her treacherous mind was still replaying the words, bewildered and reproachful:

_Shea, you idiot. What if she's actually a lesbian?_

It chafed, bitterly so, that others of her age and gender could be so... so... inferior. And those.. boys! The violent spasm in Harry's face, and Ron's sudden coughing attack, had been salt in her wounds. All right, it did appease her a little that they had fought their laughter, in deference to her; but even so, it was cold companionship that found amusement in her wrath. This wasn't even _her_ idea. They would be nowhere near that group of - underlings - if she'd just had the balls to say no, thank you, Dumbledore, I _like _my sanity, thanks all the same...

She could feel the hot blood of anger pulsing in her fingertips. The whole situation was ridiculous. She was sitting in a _green Bug, _of all things - yes, it was a lovely piece of magic, and even now she longed to know the mechanics of it, but it was still a horrid little Bug on the outside - and she was on her way to the most infamous laughingstock of a college that the planet had yet seen.

_And_ it was in Canada. _Canada. _It would be _cold! _

Hermione glanced at the door, and her stomach clenched. Cold indeed. Cold as the hearts of her so-called friends, who still had not followed her. Consolation? Comfort? To be found in a pair of young men, who were supposedly _responsible adults_? Perish the thought.

She would not give the satisfaction of going after them. If they wanted to come in, distract her with conversations, heal the deep cut to her ego by means of their staunch, unflinching friendship, that was fine. Of course, she would make them work a little to get back into favor. In the words of the wise: _If thou think'st I am too quickly won, I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, that thou wilt woo..._

Ah, but she was daydreaming now. Ron and Harry were fine, as boys went, but not mature enough to take the first step towards empathy. They were probably just outside the door, even now, debating whether to enter and risk her wrath.

It was a logical question. The cut had been sharp, and still she bled, though her blood _was_ beginning to cool... Well, she would meet them halfway.

It was a great compromise to her hauteur, but she managed it. Plastering a benevolent smile on her face, Hermione rose to her feet and opened the compartment door, preparing to extend the hand of forgiveness.

No one was there to accept it.

The smile was gone now. Already she could feel the heat, briefly forgotten, flooding her face.

She braced herself, and looked.

The entire hallway. Empty.

Swayed between fury and tears, Hermione turned again and looked at her compartment with unseeing eyes. In her mind's eye she saw the eight of them - the six insufferable girls, and her two "friends" - sitting thigh-by-thigh in their small quarters, exchanging more jokes at her expense, and trading quips to hear that sickening falsetto laughter. (All right, it was a stereotype on her part, but was it not deserved?)

Vixens! Minxes! She slammed the door as hard as she could, and stood in the hallway, breathing heavily.

A thought of vengeance rose to her mind, as well as the memory of a few good hexes. She was quick to dismiss them. No, she wouldn't spoil their fun. But the thought of sitting alone, brooding and mourning by turns, was repulsive. _I _will _pay them back. I'll find my own little... nest. _For a fleeting instant, she enjoyed the mental image of four gleaming, muscled young men, their attentions and sympathies wholly for her as she, teary-eyed, recounted the betrayal of her friends.

Common sense rejected that, too... eventually. _It needn't be so dramatic. But I _won't_ sit alone all the way to Canada._

Her luggage was loaded; the weight of her bookbag against her side was a reassurance. Hermione took a few hesitant steps (_away_from the front of the car)and slid open a compartment door at random, pushing her anger with the boys to the back of her mind.

Several heads, male and female alike, swiveled to face her. She offered them a wry smile. "May I sit with you?"

A blonde was the first to respond. Hoisting a pile of notebooks, papers, and Chocolate Frog cards into her lap, she gestured to the seat she had cleared away. "Sure, go ahead." Hermione moved to take the space, and met a pair of earnest, kind eyes as the blonde smiled. "I'm Rachael. The girl across from you is Megan, and this is Robert..."

As she made the introductions, Hermione feigned an engaging smile, reaching out mechanically to shake hands with each new face. A sigh rose within her, but she smothered it. This was a much better crowd. They were hospitable, and _kind_. Look at the ungrudging welcome they had given her! This was where she _wanted_ to be. Go new places, meet new people, make new friends, right?

Even so, she was restless. She glanced from unfamiliar face to unfamiliar face, and something very like a knot settled in her stomach.

Only later did she realize what the problem was. Not once, though she had inspected the strange features carefully, had she seen a pair of green eyes or a nose overrun with freckles.

* * *

Ron was enjoying himself hugely. It had barely been five minutes, and already he felt comfortable with these six girls - with the exception of of the one who had infuriated Hermione. He was a bit scared of her - what was her name? Shea, yes, that was it, with her lingering eyes and strident laughter. She seemed nice enough, but anyone who could push the witch's buttons so successfully at one go was definitely someone to be wary of. 

They had exchanged some stories and jokes already. Ron's retelling of his fifth-year Quidditch victory had gone over well, and then the redheaded female had quipped something about a running Scottish man, or something, that he hadn't quite understood; but he joined in the laughter anyway.

The whole group of them were incredibly high-spirited. In fact, gazing around at them all, he only noted two girls who were being unnervingly quiet: one, a dark-haired, stocky girl who had complained of motion sickness and then lapsed into silence, though she seemed to be listening to their exchanges with amusement; the second, a somber brunette who had not taken her slate-blue eyes off of Harry since he sat down. Ron glanced at his friend, and saw him returning the stare with defiance.

"Um, I don't think we've introduced ourselves," he intervened, breaking the contest of wills. "I'm Ron, this is Harry... Potter," he added, just in case.

He had assumed that her silence was because she, like some others, was scared of the Boy Who Lived... but she did not even bat an eyelash. "Tessa," she replied, sticking out a hand. They shook, awkwardly, and she continued: "This is Kayla - Marie - Snoop- err, Virginia, sorry - Shea - and Kate."

The merriment had abated slightly, and more than one pair of female eyes was now trained on Harry's forehead, where the flyaway dark hair revealed a bit of that famous lightning bolt. He smoothed it down; Ron recognized the rebellion in his eyes instantly. He coughed. Distraction... let's see... "So... anyone play wizard chess?"

"I do," Tessa answered promptly, but her eyes had returned to Harry. Strangely enough, her gaze held no fear, or contempt, or jealousy - if Ron sensed anything behind those bluey-gray orbs, it was an intense, biting, nervous curiosity.

_What is it, damn you? _he thought, annoyed with her indescretion. His voice held none of his irritation, however. "D'you want to play me?"

Finally, she looked straight at him, her full attention torn away as if in answer to his thoughts. "Yeah, why not?"

"You should tell him your lawnmower joke while you set up, Tess," Shea prodded.

"Oh, let me," Virginia begged. "She _always_ tells it. Can I, Tess?"

A wry smile twisted her lips. "Be my guest."

The noise level had soared up again. Kate and Marie had started a little side conversation about kilts, and Virginia had launched into her story ("There was this guy, right, and one day he decided he wanted to take a class at the college..."). Tessa rummaged in her bookbag - _what is it with girls and bookbags?_ Ron wondered briefly - and came up with a miniature wooden chess set, which she balanced on their knees. When she glanced up at him, her eyes were apologetic. "Sorry, it's Muggle chess - but my dad bought it for me, so, you know -"

"It's fine," said Ron hastily. "White or black?"

In answer, she took two pawns and rolled them between her palms, switching them from left to right, and back again, too quickly to follow. Then she held out two fists. Ron tapped the right, and she let her fingers uncurl.

Black.

"...and the professor's like, 'Well, that means you're in love with your wife, correct?'..." Virginia continued. She paused, savoring the moment, and then stopped altogether. Her eyes narrowed. "Hey, where are you going?"

Ron's head snapped up. Harry had risen to his feet and was already sliding back the door. "Oy, mate, where are you off to?"

He gestured helplessly. "I just... this doesn't feel right. 'Mione's upset, and I don't... we should go see what's up."

"I'd rather poke a dragon in the eye with a very short stick," the redhead retorted.

" 'Meddle not in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and good with ketchup,'" Marie intoned cheerfully. She blinked and looked around when all eyes turned to her. "What?"

"You can invite her to come back with you," Shea offered, a thread of guilt in her voice. "I was just messing with her, you know."

"Yeah, you'll soon learn not to take us seriously," Kate said, and Ron fancied he had never heard a drier voice.

Harry hesitated for a second, one hand on the door. "You think we should..." he fumbled for a phrase, and halted. Tessa was watching him again, wariness in her eyes.

"Give her space?" Ron demanded. "I _know_ we should, Harry."

"That's not what I meant," Harry said, coldly, and stepped out.

They all listened to his footsteps trail away. Kayla blinked and shook her head. "Is he always like that? He's so... depressed. Like, I dunno, he was cool in the hall and stuff, but he got really weird when his girlfriend person left. He kept like, twitching. I don't think I saw him smile at all, once he sat down. I was like, dude. It's okay."

Ron met her gaze dispassionately. "Depressed?" he asked, his voice deceptively mild. If these girls didn't know the horrors of his friend's life, he wouldn't be the one to fill them in. Oh, every little witch and wizard knew that Harry had survived the Killing Curse, aged one year, and they also knew that he had caused Voldemort's defeat... but few had been there, at his actual bedside, during those crucial moments in June when the semblence of life had shredded away... leaving nothing but the shell and the blood and the fear that every shallow breath would be his last...

...and then, watching the dullness, the apathy, the resentment for the next few months, with the spirit slowly reassembling behind those green eyes like shuttered windows...

For a while, it was like a dementor had sucked out his very soul, leaving nothing but darkness.

Ron shuddered and looked around. The memories were so bleak that for a moment he felt as if he sat in a dream... the noise of the car engine, the distant conversations, the light, the faces turned questioningly to his... and then Tessa prodded him.

"Your move, Ron."

He looked down at the chessboard they'd propped on their knees. She had made her opening move, a white knight two spaces in front of her queen's bishop.

The fog in his head cleared. This was real. This was chess. He'd beaten a Hogwarts professor's chess game when he was eleven. He could do this, easily. A deep breath filled his lungs.

"Hermione's not his girlfriend," he heard himself say.

"She's not?" Shea sounded surprised. "Is she yours?"

"We had a thing going during our school years, but it never really went anywhere... so no."

"She isn't _really _gay, is she? I'd feel so bad..."

A chuckle bubbled in his chest. He waved a hand airily. "No, believe me, she is not."

"Well, if she isn't Harry's girlfriend, then why was he being so weird when she left?" Kayla demanded aggressively.

Ron twitched. This was a point he hadn't considered.

"You know, Tess, it might have been your fault," someone was saying distantly. He surfaced to find Virginia watching Tessa like a cat.

"I don't know what you mean." The tone could have stripped paint. Even Ron, distracted as he was, could translate That Voice.

_End of subject... end of subject..._

"You were _so_ staring at him!" Virginia, intentionally oblivious, lifted her eyebrows expressively. "I mean, good-looking, yes, but not droolworthy. Kayla's right... he totally looks depressed."

Her friend dismissed that possibility absently. "Oh, it was nothing like that. I thought I recognized his voice, is all." Ron made his move, and her attention promptly returned to the chessboard.

"To be fair, you _were_ being weird," Kate said, a slight frown marring her brow as she watched her friend. "I haven't seen you so quiet during a car trip since the time you ate, like, a whole bag of Kookies at the mall, and you were trying not to puke all over our car."

"She's usually really hyper," Virginia whispered loudly, her comment addressed to Ron but intended for Tessa's ears.

The latter set a pawn down hard enough to make Ron's knees twinge. "You caught me out, Snoopy," she said, her voice suddenly icy and layered with biting sarcasm. "I have a thing for our dark and broody Mr. Potter. How can I help it? He's sooo dreamy. Look, I thought I recognized him from somewhere, all right? It freaked me out a little. Your move, Ron."

"Recognized him? From where?" the young man asked, curiously.

Tessa exhaled, obviously annoyed with them all. "Nowhere!" When she saw that their eyes remained on her, she sighed again. Leaning back against the seat cushions, as though resigning herself to the inevitable, she gave them all her most sullen deadpan. Her voice, barely a mutter, was low and resentful.

"A hot-n'-steamy sex dream," she confessed.

They all stared at her. She couldn't manage the straight face for long; after seeing Ron's bulging eyes, she caved, nearly upsetting their chessboard with her violent spasms of laughter.

"Guys, I'm _kidding_!"

The joke, once identified for what it was, was successful: most of her friends erupted in laughter over this, though Ron had to blink a couple of times to rid himself of the image in his mind's eye. Satisfied, Virginia returned to her rendition of the lawnmower joke; Marie broke out two huge bags of candy, one of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans and the other of Shrek M&Ms. The conversation about kilts started up again, though Ron couldn't guess what sort of obscure private joke had spurred this.

Once, however, as the chess game progressed, he glanced up to find Tessa's face set in a thoughtful manner - and this time, he could detect a little fear before she shook it away and checked his king.

* * *

Megan held up her most recent Chocolate Frog card and inspected it. "Alright, I've got my third Hengist of Woodcroft, currently sprouting ivy from his ears, and I'm willing to trade. Does anyone have Circe?" 

Rachael took a small deck from her back pocket and tapped the top card (the druidess Cliodna), murmuring "_accio Circe_" as she did. The deck rose in midair, shuffling itself. When she reached up for the top card, it had changed from Cliodna to Circe. "Trade for Hengist and Morgana?" she offered.

"Sure. Hermione, you wouldn't happen to have a Morgana, would you?" Megan looked askance at Hermione, who, despite all of their coaxing, refused to begin her own deck. The four cards she had obtained she held loosely, offering them to whoever would take them. She had no interest, she claimed, in chocolate-frog decks.

"Well, neither do we, really," Robert had told her. "But if you collect a certain eight, or ten, or twelve, you get prizes. Tiny flying broomsticks, or something. And those are most certainly collectable." He'd brought out a tiny sack, to show her the little Firebolt that he was so proud of. He'd thought to impress her, poor thing.

She'd spared him a disdainful look. "Oh, yes. Absolutely. Count me in. I totally want a bagful of useless tiny flying broomsticks."

Robert had looked hurt. Hermione, sighing, rubbed her eyes. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"PMS, probably," Rachael had said, trying to win a laugh. The other girl shot her a glare.

Megan was starting to dislike her. Oh, she had been nice enough, when she first sat down. She'd certainly been unhesitant when Rachael offered her some Chocolate Frogs... but something seemed to be bugging her, and her responses, so cheerful at first, had grown more and more clipped and sarcastic. Now she was silent. Without saying a word, she rifled through her four cards and offered Megan her Morgana. The trade for Circe was completed.

Megan looked down at her own deck, fanning them out to see every picture. Hengist of Woodcroft, Lady of Salem, Uther Pendragon, Hedwig, Flamel, Viviane, Herne... she sighed and slid them shut. She was collecting for a miniature Nimbus 2000, but in truth, she had little interest in trading-card games either. It was a common fad among her peers, one that she only pretended to be absorbed in. If nothing else, the little broomsticks made good Christmas presents. And the game passed the time.

It certainly filled the icy silence.

_I wish she would _leave, Megan thought, glancing back at Hermione nervously. _What is she trying to prove by staying here?_

As if on cue, the door slid open again.

Robert, Rachael, and the other girl in the compartment with them - a dark brunette - had begun a debate over a Ptolemy card and hardly even looked up. Megan's eyes stayed on Hermione. When the door opened, she had flinched; now she was watching the figure in the doorway coldly. Still she did not speak.

" 'Mione, are you okay?"

Megan hurriedly dropped her gaze to her deck of cards. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Hermione cast her a critical glance. What to do...

Hastily, to thwart suspicion, she poked Robert. "Do you have a Merlin?"

"Huh? A Merlin? Prob'ly... hold on, Meg- Rach, no, you're not getting my Ptolemy, I need it for the Comet 260-"

The conversation went on, growing in volume. Megan allowed herself a smug smile. Her friends were boisterous enough that _her _attention would go unnoticed - and thus, she was free to observe.

Hermione was talking again. Her voice was deceptively reasonable. "Why would I not be okay, Harry?" she inquired casually. "I get mortally insulted, and my friends think it's funny, and they go off and leave me to stew? Why would that offend me?" Though she kept her voice low, it was soon apparent that she was upset; barely a minute of exchange had gone by before shewas talking too quickly to follow.

Her eavesdropper, even though she was only catching one word of five, could tell:this was a prepared rant. She kept her eyes down as she unwrapped another Chocolate Frog, listening as hard as she could.Even so, shecould only catch phrases.Hermione's voice had gone from casual to a venomous hiss.

"I wouldn't be here at all if... I guess that I proposed... butyou two shouldn't have betrayed me... well, obviously I have little to complain of except for wounded pride... but I would have thought better of you, Harry... value of friendship would mean more to you of all people, seeing as it _was_ Ron and I who found you in June-"

Here, the strange boy cut her off.

"Ron said you needed time to yourself," he commented, and his voice was as cold as ice. "Maybe he was right."

Hermione sputtered. "_Me?_"

Harry seemed about to say something, but by now the others in the compartment were starting toeye them curiously, and he changed his mind. "Can we talk in the hall?"

She got up and stormed past him. Megan met Harry's eyes for a fleeting second, and then he shut the door.

The others hesitated for a moment, sensing that something wasn't right. Then Rachael made a grab for something in Robert's hand, and he pulled away sharply, saying, "Rachael, I said you can't have it, all right?"

"If you'd just _listen, _I have Agrippa and Herne and we can work something out-"

Megan pressed her ear to the cold wall and listened.

* * *

"You have got some nerve," Hermione seethed, pacing up and down the hallway. "You and Ronald both owe me an apology for deserting me like that, and I think that-" 

"_I _owe_ you _an apology."

She stumbled over her own wrath. "Well, yes!" she asserted, and then stopped, feeling sudden confusion writhe in her gut. What had she said, in her anger? Somehow she couldn't remember. The words had just spilled out. It had been surprisingly easy, to actually confront him about something; she had held off since June, whether from fear or respect she couldn't tell--

Memory surged.

_I thought the value of friendship would mean more to you of all people, seeing as it _was_ Ron and I who found you in June..._

Cold fingers settled on her heart. She couldn't believe her own nerve. Even so, she set her jaw grimly. This was _their_ fault. His and Ron's. Not hers.

_Still! How could I have said that?_

Harry sighed and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. "Look, 'Mione, I'm sorry about the lesbian thing. You took it a little too personally, you know. Ron and I were sitting with them and they're actually nice... they just kid around a lot. Like Ron and his strip tennis. Surely you could have seen that?"

Her eyes smarted. Hermione blinked rebelliously, forcing the hormones back. "For God's sake, Harry, I'm not upset about _that_... well, I was, a little," she conceded, seeing him raise his eyebrows. "But you two shouldn't have turned around and gone and sat with them! At the very least, you could have proposed it to me! 'Hey, let's go sit with those strange chicks, what do you say?'"

"And what would you have said, if we had?" Harry asked dryly.

He'd cornered her. She changed the subject. "Well, if they're _so _nice and _so _clever, why aren't you still back there?"

"I wanted to see how you were."

It was her turn to raise her eyebrows. "After all this time. Let me guess: Jiminy Cricket just _happened_ to come by and give your conscience a prod."

He blinked. " 'Jiminy'...?"

_Stupid! Stupid! _"Never mind. Be satisfied that I don't trust you." Hermione scowled at him. "What happened? Did one of them try to feel you up _before_ they'd gotten you thoroughly drunk?"

To this, he was silent. The cold fingers on her heart squeezed, and for a moment she couldn't breathe. Irrational fears drummed in her chest. "Did they... really..."

Harry started, and focused on her face again. "Wh- oh. No. No, they didn't. I told you they were nice, didn't I?" he added. Absently he reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's me, I think. I just wasn't comfortable.One of them was watching me, like she could see me... underneath."

"Meaning...?"

A long silence stretched. He cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and hoarse. "I felt like a snake again, with her eyes on me. Like... like it used to be, before..."

Hermione felt the hairs on her arms prickling. Before Voldemort's demise, Harry had had moments of weakness, where he and the Dark Lord exchanged more than just feelings; Harry had mentioned, briefly, feeling almost like a snake whenever Dumbledore drew near, or when he slept, or even when Voldemort was near. Snape had done the best to protect the boy with Occlumency, but You-Know-Who was ultimately stronger than a Potions Master...

"But he's dead, Harry," she whispered. "The Heir of Slytherin is dead. You..."

"I killed him, yes." The words were harsh, and for a moment Hermione recoiled. It was the first time he'd spoken it, and the bitter smile he offered her chilled her to the bone.

For a moment she held quite still, hearing the blood pound in her ears. _Dumbledore was right. Oh my God, will we never be free?_

"You don't think she's-" Harry started, and for a moment he sounded so young and helpless that she wanted to weep. "Necromancy, perhaps?"

"No, Harry," she said quietly. "Voldemort's power was such that only someone more powerful than him could raise him from the dead, and that's you, and maybe Dumbledore; and neither of you would ever do that, right, Harry?"

He must have heard the apprehension in her voice, for this time his smile reassured her, a little. "No, never." He sighed, and his shoulders sagged. "I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me." He held out his arms, as if asking for comfort. "D'you forgive us, 'Mione?"

She hugged him as hard as she could, blinking fiercely. Howcould she be angry with him now? Her own trials seemed trivial, in comparison with his."Of course."

Harry nodded at the compartment she had vacated earlier. "I might sit down for a while. I need to unwind. Alone, if you don't mind," he added, seeing the offer on her lips before she'd voiced it.

"I'll lend you candles and bubble bath, if you need it," Hermione half-joked, pulling away. "Oh, and tell Ron I owe him a good smack upside the head. With a tennis racket."

"I will," he promised.

They might have stood there indefinitely, searching for words, if Robert hadn't slid the door open. "-gonna go see what Jesse and them are up to," he was saying. He stepped out into the corridor, nodded to Harry and Hermione, and then paused. A scowl crossed his face. "Rachael, you are going to pay dearly for that Ptolemy."

"Call if you need anything," the witch whispered to her friend, and went back to her seat. Robert slid the door shut again; she heard his footsteps go pounding down the hall.

"Want another Chocolate Frog?" Rachael offered, sympathetically.

"Why not? Chocolate makes everything better," Hermione said wearily, accepting the little package. When she ripped it open, the card slid into her lap - but she was too intent on the chocolate to pay it any heed.

The blonde gave her a cockeyed look. "Boy trouble?"

"Not the way you think," she replied before she bit. Milky sweetness dissolved in her mouth, and she could have sighed with relief. Amazing, how quickly chocolate could banish sorrows.

When she'd finished it, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Something was nagging her, something trivial but worrisome all the same: the three of them, all in different compartments. Ron was flirting with six girls at the front of the train; Harry was brooding somewhere behind her. It just didn't feel right. They'd always been together on the train to school. Always.

_Not anymore, apparently,_ she thought, dispirited, and opened her eyes to find Megan watching her.

"Yes?" she demanded crossly.

The girl only shook her head and looked away.

_She must have overheard, _Hermione realized. _Well, what does it matter? The world knows that Harry killed Voldemort in June. And why should I care, if someone I've never met before overhears a fight? _She glared an unspoken challenge, but Megan still refused to meet her eyes.

_This is the single worst train trip of my life, _Hermione finally decided, dropping her gaze to her lap. She almost jumped at the sight that awaited her: Dumbledore, his wizened old face blinking up at her serenely, as if her very thoughts had summoned him. It took her a moment to realize that it was her Chocolate Frog card.

_You bastard, _she told him silently. _You sowed our fears, and now I __pay the price!_

He didn't reply. Well, he couldn't, could he? He was only a photo. A stupid, useless photo that might, if she collected the ones that were supposed to go with him, win her a tiny flying broomstick.

Her eyes burned. Furious with everything - with Ron, with herself, with these stupid people, and with the suspicious old man whose advice had landed her here - she took the card in shaking hands and tore it down the middle.

* * *

Hooray... I've finally finished this bloody chapter... Shea, it wasn't a birthday present, but it's within the same week :D Good enough. I hope. 

Guest starring: cameo appearances by Rachael and Mr. Sadie Hawkins Dance ;) And Megan, yay!

I've had this story running for over a year. Gracious God, I'm insane.

Plotbunnies, Ethan! Feel loved!

This is a fairly long chapter... I'm exhausted, but my muse is happy. It's Fyrie's doing, I promise. She finally got another chapter up. Of course, she has no idea that I exist, but still. Goddess worship is allowed, right?

Please review. It takes five seconds, and it makes my day.

T


End file.
